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BIOGRAPHY 



OF THE LATE 



LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



POETICAL REMAINS 

OF THE LATE 

LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON, 

COLLECTED AND ARRANGED 
BY HER MOTHER: 

WITH A BIOGRAPHY, 
MISS SEDGWICK. 



'Death, as if fearing to destroy, 
Paused o'er her couch awhile ; 

She gave a tear for those she loved, 
Then met him with a smile." 



M- 



PHILADELPHIA: 

LEA AND BLANCHARD 

1841. 






Entered, according to act of Congress, in the year 1841, i 

By lea & BLANCHARD, 

In the office (Jf the clerk of the District Court of the Eastern District 

of Pennsylvania. J 



i" 



2 P ^ 



T. K. & P. G. Collins, Printers. 



CONTENTS. 



Dedication ------ ix 

BioGRAPHy - . _ _ _ 33 

Poetical Remains - - - - 91 

Address to my Muse _ . . _ 95 

Amir Khan - - - _ _ 97 

Chicomico ----- jgx 

Miscellaneous Pieces - _ - . X53 

Charity ------ 155 

To Science ----- 155 

Pleasure ------ 155 

TJie Good Shepherd - . . - 157 

Lines, written under the promise 0^ Reward - 158 

To the Memory of H. K. White - - - 159 

Stilling the Waves - - - - - 159 

A Song-, in imitation of the Scotch - - - \qq 

Exit from Egyptian Bondage - _ - \q\ 

Last Flower of the Garden - - - - 163 

Ode to Fancy - - - - - 164 

The Blush 165 

On an ^olian Harp - _ - - X67 

The Coquette - - - - - 168 

Death of an Infant ----- 169 

Reflections on crossing Lake Champlain - - 171 

The Star of Liberty - - - - 173 

The Mermaid ----- 173 

On Solitude ----- 174 



vi CONTENTS. 

On the Birth of a Sister - - - . - 176 

A Dream - - - - - - 177 

To my Sister - - - - - 179 

Cupid's Bower ----- 180 

The Family Time-Piece - - - - 182 

On the Execution of Mary Queen of Scots - - 184 

The Destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah - - 186 

Ruth's answer to Naomi - - - - 188 

David and Jonathan - - - - 189 

Tlie Sick Bed - • - - - 190 

Death ------ 191 

To my Mother ----- 191 

Sabrina, a Volcanic Island, which appeared and } -qo 

disappeared among the Azores, in 1811 ^ 

The Prophecy - - - - - 194 

Prophecy II. - - - - - 195 

Prophecy III. - - - - _ 196 

Byron ------ 199 

Feats of Death - - - - - 199 

Auction Extraordinary - - - - 20O 

The Bachelor - - - - - 203 

The Guardian Angel - - . . 203 

On the Crew of a Vessel who were found Dead at Sea 205 

Woman's Love - - - - . 207 

To a Lady, whose singing resembled ^ 
that of an absent Sister \ 

To my Friend and Patron, M K , Esq. - 209 

On seeing a Picture of the Virgin Mary, ) 
painted several centuries since K 

American Poetry - - - - - 214 

Headache - - - - - - 215 

To a Star - - - - - - 2I6 

Song of Victory for the Death of Goliath - - 217 

The Indian Chief and Conconay - - _ 218 

The Mother's Lament for her Infant - - 221 

On the Motto of a Seal - - - - 223 



211 



CONTENTS. vii 

Morning - - - - - - 224 

Shakspeare ------ 225 

To a Friend ----- 226 

The Fear of Madness - - - - 237 

Maritorne, or the Pirate of Mexico - - - 228 

America - - - - - - 238 

Lines addressed to a Cousin - - - 240 

Modesty - - - - - - 241 

A View of Death - - - - - 242 

Rob Roy's reply to Francis Osbaldistone - - 243 

To a Lady recovering from Sickness - - 244 

The Vision - - - - - 245 

On seeing, at a Concert, the public > _ 

performance of a Female Dwarf ^ 

On seeing a young Lady at her Devotions - - 249 

Alonzo and Imanel ----- 251 

To Margaret's Eye - - - - - 253 

To a young Lady, whose Mother was > „- . 

Insane from her Birth ^ 

Song, tune Mrs. Robinson's Farewell - - 256 

Song - 257 

Twilight 258 

Fragment ------- 259 

On the Death of Queen Caroline _ - - 260 

On the Death of the beautiful Mrs. - - 261 

The White Maid of the Rock - - - 262 

The Wee Flower of the Heather - - - 264 

To my Dear Mother in Sickness - - - 265 

An Acrostic (Moon, Sun) - - - - 266 

Habakkuk 3d, 6th . - - - 267 

On reading a fragment called the Flower of the Forest 268 

Zante 269 

The Yellow Fever 271 

Kindar Burial Service, — Versified - - - 273 

The Grave ------ 274 

Ruins of Palmyra - - - - - 275 

The Wide World is Drear - - - - 276 



viii CONTENTS. 

Farewell to Miss E. B. - - - - 277 

The Army of Israel at the foot of Mount Sinai - 378 

Garden of Gethsemane - - - - 280 

The Tempest God - - - - - 281 

To a Departing Friend - - - - 282 

The Parting of De Courcy and Wilhelmine - 283 

Love, Joy, and Pleasure, an allegory - - 288 

My Last Farewell to my Harp - - - 292 

Specimens of Prose Composition - - - 293 

Columbus ------ 295 

Alphonso in Search of Learning - - - 298 

Sensibility - .- - - - - 304 

The Holy Writings - - - - 305 

Charity ------ 307 

Remarks on the Immorality of the Stage - - 309 

Contemplation of the Heavens - - - 311 



DEDICATION. 



TO WASHINGTON IRVING, ESQUIRE. 

Dear Sir:— 

Since the publication of my daughter Margaret's 
Poems, I have been solicited to revive the writings of 
my lamented Liicretia. The public has manifested so 
much interest, and expressed such unqualified admi- 
ration of their merits, and so much forbearance in 
criticising the errors of these juvenile productions, 
that I feel myself, in a measure, bound to comply with 
their wishes. As a testimony of my grateful respect, 
will you permit me, sir, to dedicate this little volume 
to you, with the sincere and united thanks of my 
family, for the truly touching and elegant manner in 
which you have executed your voluntary task. 

I am called upon for a life of my Lucretia. Broken 
as I am in health and spirits, I am not equal to the 
effort; but the kindness of Miss Sedgwick, has obviated 
that difficulty, and I am happy in being able to sub- 
stitute the following elegantly written memoir from 
the pen of that highly gifted lady, which is incorpo- 
rated in Sparks's American Biography, for the broken, 
and unconnected narrative which a grief- worn, and 
almost heart-broken mother would have produced. 

I have merely strength to slightly remark upon the 



X DEDICATION. 

circumstances under which some few of her poems 
were written; and should the imperfect manner in 
which this little volume is "got up," form a painful 
contrast to your elegant work, I trust an indulgent 
and discriminating community will make every allow- 
ance for its inefficiency. The forbearance, and even 
approbation in some instances, manifested by Mr. 
Southey, in his Review of her former publication, to 
which Professor Morse prefixed a brief sketch of her 
life, leads me to hope, that the same indulgence will be 
granted to this little tribute of maternal love; — a feeble 
monument of a mourning mother to the talents and 
virtues of a darling child. 

I have felt much diffidence in presenting these manu- 
scripts to the public, in their present imperfect and 
unfinished state; but the circumstances under which 
many of them were written, condemned and partly 
destroyed by herself, as if unworthy to hold a place 
among her papers, her extreme youth and loveliness, 
and the melancholy fact of her dying, before she had 
time to complete others, will, I trust, make them not 
less interesting to the reader of taste and feeling. 

The allegory of "Alphonso in search of Learning," 
was written at the age of eleven. It was suggested to 
her infant mind by seeing a cupola erected upon the 
Plattsburgh Academy, upon which was painted the 
Temple of Science. 

The poem of "Chicomico" was written after a severe 
illness, which confined me many months to my bed, 
during which time Lucretia made a resolution that if 
I ever should recover, she would give up her " scrib- 



DEDICATION. xi 

bling," as she called it, and devote herself to me; at 
my earnest entreaty, however, she resumed her pen, 
and the first thing she produced was Chicomico, pre- 
faced by the following lines: 

*' I had thought to have left thee, my sweet harp, for'ever; 
To have touched thy dear strings again — never — oh never! 
To have sprinkled oblivion's dark waters upon thee, 
To have hung thee where wild winds would hover around thee; 
But the voice of aflfection hath call'd forth one strain, 
Which when sung, I will leave thee to silence again." 

This beautiful tribute of affection, has ever been 
one of the most cherished relics of my child, and I 
deeply regret that the irregular and unconnected state 
of the manuscript obliges me to withhold the whole 
of the first part. 

The ballad of ^^De Courcy and Wilhelmine" was 
written for a weekly paper, which she issued for the 
amusement of the family. It was dated from " The 
Little Corner of the World," edited by the Story-Tel- 
ler, and dedicated to Mamma. After a time it was 
discontinued, and to my extreme regret destroyed. 
The fragments inserted in the collection, is one of the 
very few remnants found among her manuscripts; the 
first sixteen verses are purely original; the sequel was 
supplied by a friend, it being deemed too fine to be 
rejected for want of mere filling out. Lucretia's dif- 
fidence, and the apprehension that the circumstances 
might transpire, or the papers be read by some friend 
out of the family, was, I believe, the sole reason why 
she discontinued and destroyed them. This mutilated 



Xii DEDICATION. 

paper, and a part of Rodin Hall, are all that remain 
of the "Story-Teller." 

Her sweetly playful disposition is strongly mani- 
fested in her " Petition of the Old Comb." She had 
retired to her room with her books and pen, where 
she had spent several days; feeling a desire to see how 
she was getting on, I went to her room. As I passed 
through the hall, I saw a sealed letter directed to me, 
lying at the foot of the stairs; I opened it, and found 
it contained the '• Petition of a Poor Old Comb." 

Dear mistress, I am old and poor, 

My teeth decayed and gone; 
Oh! give me but one moment's rest, 

For mark, I'm tott'ring down. 

Thy raven locks for many a day, 

I've bound around thy brow; 
And now that I am old and lame, 

I prithee let me go. 

Have I not, many a weary hour, 

Peep'd o'er thy book or pen; 
And seen what this poor mangled form 

Will ne'er behold again? 

A faithful servant I have been, 

But ah! my day is past; 
And all my hope, and all my wish, 

Is liberty at last. 

Mark but the glittering well fill'd shelf, 

Where my companions lie; 
Are they not fairer than myself, 

And younger far than II 



DEDICATION. xiii 

Oh! then in pity hie thee there, 

Where thousands wait thy call, 
And twine one in thy raven hair, 

To shroud my shameful fall. 

My days are hastening to their close, 

Crack! crack! goes every tooth; 
A thousand pains, a thousand woes. 

Remind me of my youth. 

Adieu then— in distress I die — 

My last hold fails me now; 
Adieu, and may thy elf locks fly. 

For ever 'round thy brow. 

On reading it, I went upstairs and fonnd her enve- 
loped in books and niannscripts. Several large folios 
lay open on the table, to which she seemed to have 
been referring; while books, papers and scraps of poetry 
were strewn in confusion over the carpet. Her lux- 
uriant hair had escaped from its confinement, and hung 
in rich glossy curls upon her neck and shoulders, 
while the stiperannuated comb lay at her feet. As I 
hastily entered the room, she manifested some mor- 
tification, that I should have surprised lier in the midst 
of so much confusion, and tlurowing her handkerchief 
over her papers, laughingly asked, what I thought of 
the Petition? I advised her to send directly to the 
" well filled glittering shelf," as I had no desire to see 
the curse denounced verified, or her 

"Elf locks fly 
For ever 'round her brow." 



Xiv DEDICATION. 

" Maritorne or the Pirate of Mexico," was written 
in Albany, during her stay at the Institution of Miss 
Gilbert, at a time when she was ill, in the brief space of 
three weeks while getting daily lessons like any other 
school girl. During that period, she also produced 
several fugitive pieces. She had been absent from 
home but six weeks when I was summoned to attend 
my dying child, who had then been confined to her 
bed three weeks. On the morning after my arrival, 
she desired me to collect the scattered sheets of Ma- 
ritorne, and expressed much sorrow w^hen she found 
that some were missing. She told me with tears, that 
she feared she could never supply the loss, and said, 
**Do mamma take care of what remains, it is thus far 
the best thing I ever wrote." 

Afterlher death, in her portfolio, which her nurse 
told me she used every day sitting in bed, supported 
by pillows, I found the " Last Farewell to my Harp" 
and the " Fear of Madness," both written in a feeble 
irregular hand, and evidently under a state of strong 
mental excitement. By their side lay the unfinished 
head of a Madonna, copied from a painting executed 
several centuries ago, and with the drawing lay also 
the unfinished poem suggested by the painting, 

" Roll back thou tide of time and tell." 

In the " Last Farewell to my Harp," the presenti- 
ment of her death, if I may so term it, is strongly por- 
trayed, mingled with the feeling of presumption which 
she often manifested in having ^^ dared to gaze" 



DEDICATION. XV 

" Upon the lamp which never can expire, 
The undying, wild, poetic fire. 

There is something extremely touching in the last 
stanzas. 

" And here my harp we part for ever, 
I'll waken thee again — oh! never; 
Silence shall chain thee cold and drear. 
And thou shalt calmly slumber here!" 

"The Fear of Madness." — The reader will find 
his sympathies all awakened upon perusing this un- 
finished fragment from the pen of the lovely sufferer. 
It leaves too painful a sensation upon the mind to 
admit a comment. 

I have suppressed a very few of the poems hereto- 
fore published, and have added many new ones. 
I have the honour to be, 
Sir, your very sincere 
and obliged friend, 



M. M. D. 



Saratoga Springs, 
Augt. 1841. 



BIOGRAPHY 



OF 



LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



LucRETiA Maria Davidson was born at Platts- 
burgh, in the state of New York, on the 27lh of Sep- 
tember, 1808. Her father, Dr. Oliver Davidson, is a 
lover of science, and a man of intellectual tastes. 
Her mother, Margaret Davidson, (born Miller,) is of 
a most respectable family, and received the best edu- 
cation her times afforded at the school of the cele- 
brated Scottish lady, Isabella Graham, an institution 
in the city of New York, that had no rival in its day, 
and which derived advantages from the distinguished 
individual that presided over it, that can scarcely be 
counterbalanced by the multiplied masters and multi- 
form studies of the present day. The family of Miss 
Davidson lived in seclusion. Their pleasures and 
excitements were intellectual. Her mother has suf- 
fered year after year from ill health and debility; and 
being a person of imaginative character, and most 
ardent and susceptible feelings, employed on domestic 
incidents, and concentrated in maternal tenderness, 
she naturally loved and cherished her daughter's 
3 



34 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

marvellous gifts, and added to the intensity of the fire 
with which her genius and her affections, mingling in 
one holy flame, burned till they consumed their mor- 
tal investments. We should not have ventured to say 
thus much of the mother, who still survives to weep 
and to rejoice over her dead child more than many 
parents over their living ones, were it not to prove, 
that Lucretia Davidson's character was not miracu- 
lous, but that this flower of paradise was nurtured 
and trained by natural means and influences. 

The physical delicacy of this fragile creature was 
apparent in infancy. When eighteen months old she 
had a typhus fever which threatened her life; but 
nature put forth its mysterious energy, and she 
became stronger and healthier than before her illness. 
No records were made of her early childhood, save 
that she was by turns very gay and very thoughtful, 
exhibiting thus early these common manifestations of 
"extreme sensibility. Her first literary acquisition 
indicated her after course. She learned her letters at 
once. At the age of four she was sent to the Platts- 
burgh Academy, where she learned to read and to 
form letters in sand after the Lancasterian method. 
As soon as she could read, her books drew her away 
from the plays of childhood, and she was constantly 
found absorbed in the little volumes that her father 
lavished upon her. Her mother, on some occasion in 
haste to write a letter, looked in vain for a sheet of 
paper. A whole quire had strangely disappeared 
from the table on which the writing implements 
usually lay; she expressed a natural vexation. Her 



BIOGRAPHY. 35 

little girl came forward, confused, and said, " Mamma, 
I have used it." Her mother, knowing she had never 
been taught to write, was amazed, and asked what 
possible use she could have for it. Lucretia burst into 
tears, and replied that "she did not like to tell." Her 
mother suspected the childish mystery, and made no 
farther inquiries. The paper continued to vanish, 
and the child was often observed with pen and ink, 
still sedulously shunning observation. At last her 
mother, on seeing her make a blank book, asked what 
she was going to do with it? Lucretia blushed, and 
left the room without replying. This sharpened her 
mother's curiosity; she watched the child narrowly, 
and saw that she made quantities of these little books, 
and that she was disturbed by observation; and if one 
of the family requested to see them, she would burst 
into tears, and run away to hide her secret treasure. 

The mystery remained unexplained till she was six 
years old, when her mother, in exploring a closet 
rarely opened, found behind piles of linen, a parcel of 
papers which proved to be Lucretia's manuscript 
books. At first, the hieroglyphics seemed to baffle 
investigation. On one side of the leaf was an artfully 
sketched picture; on the other, Roman letters, some 
placed upright, others horizontally, obliquely, or 
backwards, not formed into words, nor spaced in any 
mode. Both parents pored over them till they ascer- 
tained the letters were poetical explanations in metre 
and rhyme of the picture in the reverse. The little 
books were carefully put away as literary curiosities. 
Not long after this, Lucretia came running to her mo- 



36 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

ther, painfully agitated, her face covered with her 
hands, and tears trickling down between her slender 
fingers — " Oh, mamma! mamma!" she cried, sobbing, 
*^how could you treat me so? You have not used me 
well! My little books! you have shown them to papa, 
— Anne — Eliza, I know you have. Oh, what shall I 
do?'' Her mother pleaded guilty, and tried to soothe 
the child by promising not to do so again; Lucretia's 
face brightened, a sunny smile played through her 
tears as she replied, " Oh, mamma, I am not afraid 
you will do so again, for I have burned them all;" 
and so she had! This reserve proceeded from no- 
thing cold or exclusive in her character; never was 
there a more loving or sympathetic creature. It 
would be difficult to say which was most rare, her 

modesty, or the genius it sanctified. She did not 

learn to write till she was between six and seven; her 
passion for knowledge was then rapidly developing; 
she read with the closest attention, and was continu- 
ally running to her parents with questions and re- 
marks that startled them. At a very early age, her 
mother implanted the seeds of religion, the first that 
should be sown in the virgin soil of the heart. That 
the dews of Heaven fell upon them, is evident from 
the breathing of piety throughout her poetry, and still 
more from its precious fruit in her life. Her mother 
remarks, that, " from her earliest years, she evinced a 
fear of doing anything displeasing in the sight of God; 
and if, in her gayest sallies, she caught a look of dis- 
approbation from me, she would ask with the most 
artless simplicity, 'Oh, mother, was that wicked?' " 



BIOGRAPHY. 37 

There are very early, in most children's lives, cer- 
tain conventional limits to their humanity, only cer- 
tain forms of animal life that are respected and che- 
rished. A robin, a butterfly, or a kitten is a legitimate 
object of their love and caresses; but woe to the bee- 
tle, the caterpillar, or the rat that is thrown upon their 
tender mercies. Lucretia Davidson made no such 
artificial discriminations; she seemed to have an in- 
stinctive kindness for every living thing. When she 
was about nine, one of her schoolfellows gave her a 
young rat that had broken its leg in attempting to 
escape from a trap; she tore off a part of her pocket 
handkerchief, bound up the maimed leg, carried the 
animal home, and nursed it tenderly. The rat, in 
spite of the care of its little leech, died, and was bu- 
ried in the garden, and honoured with the meed of a 
"melodious tear.^' This lament has not been pre- 
served; but one she wrote soon after, on the death of 
a maimed pet Robin, is given here as the earliest 
record of her muse that has been preserved: — 

ON THE DEATH OF MY ROBIN. 

" Underneath this turf doth lie 
A little bird which ne'er could fly, 
Twelve large angle worms did fill 
This little bird, whom they did kill. 
Puss! if you should chance to smell 
My little bird from his dark cell, 
Oh! do be merciful my cat, 
And not serve him, as you did my rat!" 

Her application to her studies at school was intense. 



38 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Her mother judiciously, but in vain, attempted a diver- 
sion in favour of that legitimate sedative to female 
genius, the needle; Lucretia performed her prescribed 
tasks with fidelity, and with amazing celerity, and was 
again buried in her book. 

When she was about twelve, she accompanied her 
father to the celebration of Washington's birth-night. 
The music and decorations excited her huagination; 
but it was not with her, as with most children, the 
mere pleasure of stimulated sensations; she had studied 
the character and history of the father of her country, 
and the " fete" stirred up her enthusiasm, and inspired 
that feeling of actual existence, and presence peculiar 
to minds of her temperament. 

To the imaginative there is an extension of life, far 
back into the dim past, and forward into the untried 
future, denied to those of common mould. 

The day after the fete, her elder sister found her 
absorbed in writing. She had sketched an urn, and 
written two stanzas beneath it: she was persuaded to 
show them to her mother; she brought them blushing, 
and trembling; her mother was ill, in bed; but she ex- 
pressed her delight with such unequivocal animation, 
that the child's face changed from doubt to rapture, 
and she seized the paper, ran away, and immediately 
added the concluding stanzas; when they were finish- 
ed, her mother pressed her to her bosom, wept with 
delight, and promised her all the aid and encourage- 
ment she could give her; the sensitive child burst into 
tears. "And do you wish me to write mamma? and will 
papa approve? — and will it be right that I should do 



BIOGRAPHY. 30 

SO?" This delicate conscientiousness gives an imperish- 
able charm to the stanzas, and to fix it in the memory 
of our readers, we here quote them from her pubUsh- 
ed poems. 

«' And does a Hero's dust lie here? 
Columbia! gaze and drop a tear! 
His country's and the orphan's friend, 
See thousands o'er his ashes bend! 

" Among the heroes of the age, 
He was the warrior and the sage! 
He left a train of glory bright 
Which never will be hid in night. 

" The toils of war and danger past, 
He reaps a rich reward at last; 
His pure soul mounts on cherub's wings 
And now with saints and angels sings. 

" The brightest on the list of fame, 
In golden letters shines his name; 
Her trump shall sound it through the world, 
And the striped banner ne'er be furled! 

*' And every sex, and every age, 
From lisping boy, to learned sage, 
The widow, and her orphan son, 
Revere the name of Washington." 

Lucretia did not escape the common trial of pre- 
cocious genius. A literary friend to whom Mrs. 
Davidson showed the stanzas, suspected the child had, 
perhaps unconsciously, repeated something she had 
gathered from the mass of her reading, and she betray- 



40 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

ed her suspicions to Lucretia — she felt her rectitude 
impeached, and this, and not the wounded pride of the 
young author, made her weep till she was actually ill; 
as soon as she recovered her tranquillity, she offered a 
poetic and playful remonstrance, which set the matter 
at rest, and put an end to all future question of the 
authenticity of her productions. Before she was twelve 
years old she had read the English poets. " The Eng- 
lish poets," says Southey, in his review of Miss 
Davidson's poems, though a vague term, was a whole- 
some course, for such a mind. She had read, beside, 
much history, sacred and profane, novels, and other 
works of imagination. — Dramatic works were parti- 
cularly attractive to her; her devotion to Shakspeare 
is expressed in an address to him written about this 
time, from which we extract the following stanza: — 

" Heaven, in compassion to man's erring heart, 
Gave thee of virtue, then of vice a part, 
Lest we in wonder here, should bow before thee, 
Break God's commandment, worship and adore thee." 

Ordinary romances, and even those highly wrought 
fictions, that without any type in nature have such a 
mischievous charm for most imaginative young per- 
sons, she instinctively rejected; her healthy appetite, 
keen as it was, was under the government of a pure 
and sound nature. Her mother, always aware of the 
worth of the gem committed to her keeping, amidst 
her sufferings from ill health kept a watchful eye on 
her child, directed her pursuits, and sympathized in 
all her little school labours and trials; she perceived 



BIOGRAPHY. 41 

that Lucretia w^as growing pale and sickly over her 
studies, and she judiciously withdrew her, for a time, 
from school. She was soon rewarded for this wise 
measure by hearing her child's bounding step as she 
approached her sick room, and seeing the cheek bent 
over her pillow blooming with returning health. 
How miserably mistaken are those, who fancy that 
all the child's lessons must be learned from the school- 
book and school-room! This apt pupil of nature had 
only changed her books and her master; now, she sat 
at the feet of the great teacher, nature, and read, and 
listened, and thought, as she wandered along the 
Saranac, or contemplated the varying aspects of Cum- 
berland Bay. She would sit for hours and watch the 
progress of a thunder-storm, from the first gathering 
of the clouds, to the farewell smile of the rainbow. 
We give a specimen of the impression of these studies 
in the following extract from her unpublished poems. 

TWILIGHT. 

How sweet the hour when daylight blends 

With the pensive shadows on evening's breast! 

And dear to this heart is the pleasure it lends, 
For 'tis like the departure of saints to their rest. 

Oh! 'tis sweet, Saranac, on thy lov'd banks to stray, 
To watch the last day-beam dance light o'er thy wave, 

To mark the white skitF as it skims o'er the Bay, 
Or heedlessly bounds o'er the warrior's deep grave.* 

* Cumberland Bay was the scene of a battle during the last 
war. 



42 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Oh! 'tis sweet to a heart unentangled and light, 

When with hope's brilliant prospects the fancy is blest, 

To pause 'mid its day dreams so witchingly bright, 
And mark the last sunbeams while sinking to rest. 



The following, from her unpublished poems, is the 
result of the same pensive meditations. 

THE EVENING SPIRIT. 

When the pale moon is shining bright 

And nought disturbs the gloom of night, 

'Tis then upon yon level green. 

From which St. Clair's dark heights are seen, 

The Evening Spirit glides along, 

And chaunts her melancholy song; 

Or leans upon a snowy cloud 

And its white skirts her figure shroud. 

By zephyrs light she's wafted far. 

And contemplates the northern star, 

Or gazes from her silvery throne, 

On that pale queen the silent moon. 

Who is the Evening Spirit fair. 

That hovers o'er thy walls, St. Clair 1 

Who is it, that with footstep light. 

Breathes the calm silence of the night 1 

Ask the light zephyr who conveys 

Her fairy figure o'er the waves ; 

Ask yon bright fleecy cloud of night. 

Ask yon pale planet's silver light. 

Why does the Evening Spirit fair 

Sail o'er the walls of dark St. Clair 1 

In her thirteenth year the clouds seemed heavily 



BIOGRAPHY. 43 

gathering over her morning; her mother who had 
hitherto been her guide and companion, could no 
longer extend to her child the sympathy and encou- 
ragement which she needed. Lucretia was oppressed 
with the apprehension of losing this fond parent, who 
for weeks and months seemed upon the verge of the 
grave. There are among her unpublished poems, 
some touching lines to her mother, written I believe 
about this time, concluding thus: — 

"Hang not thy harp upon the willow, 
That weeps o'er every passing wave; 
This life is but a restless pillow, 

There's calm and peace beyond the grave." 

As Mrs. Davidson's health gradually amended, 
with it returned her desire to give her daughter every 
means in her power to aid the development of her 
extraordinary genius. Her extreme sensibility and 
delicate health, subjected her at times, to depres- 
sions of spirit; but she had nothing of the morbid 
dejection, the exclusiveness, and hostility to the world, 
that are the results of self-exaggeration, selfishness, 
and self-idolatry, and not the natural offspring of 
genius and true feeling, which, in their healthy state, 
are pure and living fountains flowing out in abundant 
streams of love and kindness.* 

* Genius, like many other sovereigns, has been allowed the 
exercise of unreasonable prerogatives; but none perhaps much 
more mischievous, than the right to confer on self-indulgence 
the gracious name of sensibility. 



44 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Indulgent as Mrs. Davidson was, she was too wise 
to permit Lucretia to forego entirely the customary 
employments of her sex. When engaged with these 
it seems she sometimes played truant with the muse; 
once she had promised to do a sewing task, and had 
eagerly run off for her work basket; she loitered, and 
when she returned, she found her mother had done 
the work, and that there was a shade of just displeasure 
on her countenance. " Oh mamma!" she said, " I did 
forget, I am grieved, I did not mean to neglect you." 
"Where have you been, Lucretia?" "I have been 
writing," she replied, confused; " as I passed the win- 
dow, I saw a solitary sweet Pea, I thought they were 
all gone; this was alone; I ran to smell it, but before I 
could reach it a gust of wind broke the stem, I turned 
away disappointed and was coming back to you; but 
as I passed the table there stood the inkstand, and I 
forgot you." If our readers will turn to her printed 
poems and read the " Last Flower of the Garden," 
they will not wonder that her mother kissed her, and 
bade her never resist a similar impulse. 

When in her "happy moments," as she termed 
them, the impulse to write was irresistible — she 
always wrote rapidly, and sometimes expressed a 
wish that she had two pairs of hands, to record as 
fast as she composed. She wrote her short pieces 
standing, often three or four in a day, in the midst of 
the family, blind and deaf to all around her, wrapt in 
her own visions. She herself describes these visita- 
tions of her muse, in an address to her, beginning — • 



BIOGRAPHY. 45 

" Enchanted when thy voice I hear, 
I drop each earthly care; 
I feel as wafted from the world 
To Fancy's realms of air." 



When composing her long, and complicated poems, 
like "Amir Khan," she required entire seclusion; if 
her pieces were seen in the process of production, the 
spell was dissolved, she could not finish them, and 
they were cast aside as rubbish. When writing a 
poem of considerable length, she retired to her own 
apartment, closed the blinds, and in warm weather, 
placed her iEolian harp in the window. Her mother 
has described her on one of these occasions, when an 
artist would have painted her as a young genius com- 
muning with her muse. We quote her mother's gra- 
phic description: " I entered her room — she was sitting 
with scarcely light enough to discern the characters 
she was tracing; her harp was in the window, touched 
by a breeze just sufficient to rouse the spirit of harmony; 
her comb had fallen on the floor, and her long dark 
ringlets hung in rich profusion over her neck and 
shoulders, her cheek glowed with animation, her lips 
were half unclosed, her full dark eye was radiant with 
the light of genius, and beaming with sensibility, her 
head rested on her left hand, while she held her pen 
in her right^she looked like the inhabitant of another 
sphere; she was so wholly absorbed that she did not 
observe my entrance. I looked over her shoulder 
and read the following lines: 



46 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

" What heavenly music strikes my ravish'd ear, 
So soft, so melancholy, and so clear] 
And do the tuneful nine then touch the lyre, 
To fill each bosom with poetic fire? 
Or does some angel strike the sounding strings 
Who caught from echo the wild note he sings? 
But ah! another strain, how sweetl how wild! 
Now rushing low, 'tis soothing soft and mild." 

The noise I made in leaving the room roused her, 
and she soon after brought me her " Lines to an 
^oUan Harp." During the winter of 1822 she wrote 
a poetical romance, entitled "Nodri." She burned 
this, save a few fragments found after her death. 
These indicate a well contrived story, and marked by 
the marvellous ease and grace that characterized her 
versification. During this winter she wrote also a 
tragedy, "The Reward of Ambition," the only pro- 
duction she ever read aloud to her family. The fol- 
lowing summer, her health again failing, she was 
withdrawn again from school, and sent on a visit to 
some friends in Canada. A letter, too long to be in- 
serted here entire, gives a very interesting account of 
the impression produced on this little thoughtful and 
feeling recluse by new objects, and new aspects of 
society. " We visited," says the writer, " the British 
fortifications at Isle-aux-Noix. The broad ditch, the 
lofty ramparts, the drawbridge, the covered gateway, 
the wide-mouthed cannon, the Arsenal, and all the 
imposing paraphernalia of a military fortress, seemed 
connected in her mind with powerful associations of 
what she had read, but never viewed before. Instead 



BIOGRAPHY. 47 

of shrinking from objects associated with carnage and 
death, like many who possess not half her sensibiUty, 
she appeared for the moment to be attended by the 
god of war, and drank the spirit of battles and 
sieges, with the bright vision before her eyes, of con- 
quering heroes, and wreaths of victory.'^ It is curi- 
ous to see thus early the effect of story and song in 
overcoming the instincts of nature; to see this tender, 
gentle creature contemplating the engines of war, not 
with natural dread as instruments of torture and death, 
but rather as the forges by which triumphal cars 
and wreaths of victory were to be wrought. A similar 
manifestation of the effect of tradition and association 
on her poetic imagination is described in the following 
passages from the same letter. " She found much less 
in the Protestant than in the Catholic churches to 
awaken those romantic and poetic associations, created 
by the record of events in the history of antiquity and 
traditional story, and much less to accord with the 
fictions of her high-wrought imagination. In view- 
ing the buildings of the city, or the paintings in the 
churches, the same uniformity of taste was observable. 
The modern, however beautiful in design or execution, 
had little power to fix her attention; while the grand, 
the ancient, the romantic, seized upon her imagina- 
tion with irresistible power. The sanctity of time, 
seemed to her mind, to give a sublimity to the simplest 
objects; and whatever was connected with great events 
in history, or with the lapse of ages long gone by, 
riveted and absorbed every faculty of her mind. 
During our visit to the nunneries she said but little, 



48 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON, 

and seemed abstracted in thought, as if, as she herself 
so beautifully expresses it, to 

" Roll back the tide of time, and raise 
The faded forms of other days." 

" She had an opportunity of viewing an elegant col- 
lection of paintings. She seemed in ecstasies all the 
evening, and every feature beamed with joy.'^ The 
writer, after proceeding to give an account of her sur- 
prising success in attempts at pencil-sketches from 
nature, expresses his delight and amazement at the 
attainments of this girl of fourteen years in general 
literature, and at the independence and originality of 
mind that resisted the subduing, and, if I may be 
allowed the expression, the subordinating effect of this 
early intimacy with captivating models. A marvellous 
resistance, if we take into the account " that timid, re- 
tiring modesty," which, as the writer of the letter says, 
" marked her even to painful excess." Lucretia re- 
turned to her mother with renovated health, and her 
mind bright with new impressions and joyous emo- 
tions. Religion is the natural, and only sustaining ele- 
ment of such a character. Where, but at the ever 
fresh, sweet, and life-giving fountains of the Bible, 
could such a spirit have drunk, and not again thirsted? 
During the winter of 1823, she applied herself more 
closely than ever to her studies. She read the Holy 
Scriptures with fixed attention. She almost committed 
to memory the Psalms of David, the Lamentations of 
Jeremiah, and the book of Job, guided in her selection 



• BIOGRAPHY. 49 

by her poetic taste. Byron somewhere pronounces 
the book of Job, the subUmest poetry on record. During 
the winter Miss Davidson wrote " A Hymn on Crea- 
tion/^ " The Exit from Egyptian Bondage," and ver- 
sified many chapters of the Bible. She read the New 
Testament, and particularly those parts of it that con- 
tain the most affecting passages in the history of onr 
Saviour, with the deepest emotion. 

In her intellectual pursuits and attainments only 
was she premature. She retained unimpaired, the 
innocence, simplicity and modesty of a child. We have 
had descriptions of the extreme loveliness of her face, 
and gracefulness of her person, from less doubtful 
authority than a fond mother. 

Our country towns are not regulated by the conven- 
tional systems of the cities, where a youthful beauty is 
warily confined to the nursery and the school till the 
prescribed age for coming out, the coup-de-theatre of 
every young city-woman's life arrives. In the country, 
as soon as a girl can contribute to the pleasures of so- 
ciety, she is invited into it. During the winter of 1823, 
Plattsburgh was gay, and Miss Davidson was eagerly 
sought to embellish the village dances. She had been 
at a dancing school, and, like most young persons, en- 
joyed excessively this natural exercise; for that may be 
called natural which exists among all nations, barba- 
rous and civilized. 

Mrs. Davidson has given an account of her daugh- 
ter's first ball, which all young ladies, at least, will 
thank us for transcribing almost verbatim, as it places 
her more within the circle of their sympathies. Her 
4 



50 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

mother had consented to her attending one or two pub- 
Uc assemblies, in the hope they might diminish her 
extreme timidity, painful both to Liicretia and her 
friends. The day arrived; Mrs. Davidson was con- 
sulting with her eldest daughter upon the all-important 
matter of the dresses for the evening; Lucretia sat by, 
reading, without raising her eyes from the book, one 
of the Waverley novels. " Mamma, what shall Lucy 
wear?" asked her eldest sister, calling her by the pretty 
diminutive by which they usually addressed her at 
home. " Come Lucretia, what colour will you wear 
to-night?" '* Where?" " Where, why to the assem- 
bly, to be sure." " The assembly; is it to-night? so it 
is!" and she tossed away the book and danced about 
the room half wild with delight; her sister at length 
called her to order, and the momentous questions re- 
specting the dress was definitively settled; she then 
resumed her reading, and giving no thought to the 
ball, she was again absorbed in her book. This did 
not result from carelessness of appearance, or indiffer- 
ence to dress; on the contrary she was rather remark- 
able for that nice taste, which belongs to an eye for 
proportion and colouring; and any little embellishment 
or ornament she wore was well chosen, and well 
placed; but she had the right estimate of the relative 
value of objects, which belongs to a superior mind. 
W^hen the evening approached the star of the !jall 
again shone forth, she threw aside her book, and be- 
gan the offices of the toilet with girlish interest, and it 
might be, with some heart-beating at the probable 
effect of the lovely face her mirror reflected. Her sister 



BIOGRAPHY. 51 

was to arrange her hair. Lucretia put on her dress- 
ing-gown to await her convenience; but when the 
time came, she was missing; " we called her in vain," 
says Mrs. Davidson; "at last, opening the parlour door 
I distinctly saw, for it was twilight, some person sit- 
ting behind the large close stove; I approached, and 
found Lucretia writing poetry! moralizing on what 
the v/orld calls pleasure!" I was almost dumb with 
amazement — she was eager to go, delighted with the 
prospect of pleasure before her; yet she acted as if the 
time were too precious to spend in the necessary pre- 
parations, and she sat still, and finished the last stan- 
za, while I stood by, mute with astonishment at this 
strange learning in a girl of fourteen, preparing to at- 
tend her first ball, an event she had anticipated with 
so many mingled emotions." " She returned from 
the assembly," continues her mother, " wild with de- 
hght." "Oh mamma," said she, " I wish you had 
been there! when I first entered, the glare of light 
dazzled my eyes, my head whirled, and I felt as if I 
were treading on air; all was so gay, so brilliant! but 
I grew tired at last, and was glad to hear sister say it 
was time to go home." 

The next day the ball was dismissed from her 
mind, and she returned to her studies with her cus- 
tomary ardour. During the winter she read " Jose- 
phus," Charles the Fifth, Charles Twelfth; read over 
Shakspeare, and various other works in prose and 
poetry; she particularly liked "Addison," and read 
almost every day a portion of the Spectator. Her 
ardent love of literature seldom interfered with her 



52 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

social dispositions, never with her domestic affections; 
she was ever the Hfe and joy of the home circle. 
Great demands were made on her feelings about this 
time by two extraordinary domestic events; the mar- 
riage and removal of her elder sister, her beloved 
friend and companion; and the birth of another, the 
httle Margaret, so often the fond subject of her poetry. 
New, and doubtless sanative emotions were called 
forth by this last event. The following lines from her 
published poems were written about this time. 

Sweet babe! I cannot hope that thou'lt be freed 
From woes, to all since earliest time decreed; 
But may'st thou be with resignation blessed. 
To bear each evil howsoe'er distressed. 

May Hope her anchor lend amid the storm, 
And o'er the tempest rear her angel form; 
May sweet Benevolence, whose words are peace. 
To the rude whirlwind softly whisper — cease! 

And may Religion, Heaven's own darling child, 
Teach thee at human cares and griefs to smile; 
Teach thee to look beyond that world of woe. 
To Heaven's high fount whence mercies ever flow. 

And when this vale of years is safely passed. 
When death's dark curtain shuts the scene at last, 
May thy freed spirit leave this earthly sod, 
And fly to seek the bosom of thy God. 

The following lines, never before published, and, as 
we think, marked by more originality and beauty. 



BIOGRAPHY. 53 

were written soon after, and, as those above, with her 
infant sister in her lap. What a subject for a painter 
would this beautiful impersonation of genius and love 
have presented. 

THE SMILE OF INNOCENCE. 

(Written at the age of fifteen.) 

There is a smile of bitter scorn, 

Which curls the lip, which lights the eye; 

There is a smile in beauty's morn. 
Just rising o'er the midnight sky. 

There is a smile of youthful joy, 

When Hope's bright star's the transient guest; 
There is a smile of placid age. 

Like sunset on the billows breast. 

There is a smile, the maniac's smile, 

Which lights the void which reason leaves. 

And like the sunshine through a cloud. 

Throws shadows o'er the song she weaves. 

There is a smile, of love, of hope. 

Which shines a meteor through life's gloom; 

And there's a smile. Religion's smile. 
Which lights the weary to the tomb. 

There is a smile, an angel's smile, 

That sainted souls behind them leave. 
There is a smile which shines thro' toil. 
And warms the bosom though in grief; 

And there's a smile on nature's face. 

When evening spreads her shades around; 



54 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

A pensive smile when twinlcling stars 
Are glimmering thro' the vast profound. 

But there's a smile, 'tis sweeter still, 

'Tis one far dearer to my soul; 
It is a smile which angels might 

Upon their brightest list enroll. 

It is the smile of innocence, 

Of sleeping infancy's light dream; 
Like lightning on a summer's eve, 

It sheds a soft and pensive gleam. 

It dances round the dimpled cheek, 

And tells of happiness within; 
It smiles what it can never speak, 

A human heart devoid of sin. 

The three last most beautiful stanzas must have 
been inspired by the sleeping infant on her lap, and 
they seem to have reflected her soul's image; as we 
have seen the little inland lake catch and give back 
the marvellous beauty of the sunset clouds. " Soon 
after her marriage," says Mrs. Davidson, " her sister, 
Mrs. Townsend, removed to Canada, and many cir- 
cumstances combined to interrupt her literary pursuits, 
and call forth, not only the energies of her mind, but 
to develope the filial devotion and total sacrifice of all 
selfish feelings, which gave a new and elevated tone 
to her character, and showed us that there was no 
gratification either in pursuance of mental improve- 
ment, or personal ease, but must bend to her high 
standard of filial duty." Her mother was very ill, 
and, to add to the calamity, her monthly nurse was 



BIOGRAPHY. 55 

taken sick, and left her — the infant, too, was ill. Lu- 
cretia sustained her multiplied cares with firmness and 
efficiency, the conviction that she was doing her duty- 
gave her strength almost preternatural. I shall again 
quote her mother's words, for I fear to enfeeble by 
any version of my own, the beautiful example of this 
conscientious little being. ''Lucretia astonished us 
all; she took her station in my sick room, and devoted 
herself wholly to the mother and the child; and when 
my recovery became doubtful, instead of resigning 
herself to grief, her exertions were redoubled, not only 
for the comfort of the sick, but she was an angel of con- 
solation to her afflicted father; we were amazed at the 
exertions she made, and the fatigue she endured; for 
with nerves so weak, a constitution so delicate, and a 
sensibility so exquisite, we trembled lest she should 
sink with anxiety and fatigue. Until it ceased to be 
necessary, she performed not only the duty of a nurse, 
but acted as superintendant of the household." When 
her mother became convalescent, Lucretia continued 
her attentions to domestic affairs: " She did not so 
much yield to her ruling passion as to look into a book, 
or take up a pen (says her mother), lest she should 
again become so absorbed in them as to neglect to 
perform those little offices which a feeble, affectionate 
mother had a right to claim at her hands. As was to 
be expected from the intimate union of soul and body, 
when her mind was starved, it became dejected and 
her body weak; and, in spite of her filial efforts, her 
mother detected tears on her cheeks, was alarmed by 
her excessive paleness, and expressed her apprehen- 



56 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

sions that she was ill. " No, mamma," she replied, 
'^ not ill, only out of spirits.'^ Her mother then re- 
marked, that of late, she never read or wrote. She 
burst into tears, — a full explanation followed, and the 
generous mother succeeded in convincing her child 
that she had been misguided in the course she had 
adopted, that the strongest wish of her heart was to 
advance her in her literary career, and for this she 
would make every exertion in her power; at the 
same time she very judiciously advised her to inter- 
sperse her literary pursuits with those domestic occu- 
pations so essential to prepare every woman in our 
land for a housewife, her probable destiny. 

This conversation had a most happy effect; the 
stream flowed again in its natural channel, and Lu- 
cretia became cheerful, read and wrote, and practised 
drawing. She had a decided taste for drawing, and 
excelled in it. She sung over her work, and in every 
way manifested the healthy condition that results 
from a wise obedience to the laws of nature. 

We trust there are thousands of young ladies in our 
land, who at the call of filial duty would cheerfully 
perform domestic labour; but if there are any who 
would make a strong love for more elevated and re- 
fined pursuits, an excuse for neglecting these coarser 
duties, we would commend them to the example of 
this conscientious child. She, if any could, might 
have pleaded her genius, or her delicate health, or 
her mother's most tender indulgence, for a failure, 
that in her would have hardly seemed to us a fault. 

During this summer, she went to Canada with her 



BIOGRAPHY. 57 

mother, where she revelled in an unexplored library, 
and enjoyed most heartily the social pleasures at her 
sister's. They frequently had a family concert of 
music in the evening. Mrs. Townsend (her sister) 
accompanied the instruments with her fine voice. 
Lucretia was often moved by the music, and particu- 
larly by her favourite song, Moore's " Farewell to my 
Harp;" this she would have sung to her at twilight, 
when it would excite a shivering through her whole 
frame. On one occasion, she became cold and pale, 
and was near fainting, and afterwards poured her ex- 
cited feelings forth in the following address: — 

TO MY SISTER. 

When evening spreads her shades around, 
And darkness fills the arch of Heaven; 

When not a murmur, nor a sound 
To fancy's sportive ear is given; 

When the broad orb of Heaven is bright. 

And looks around with golden eye ; 
When nature, softened by her light, 

Seems calmly, solemnly to lie; 

Then, when our thoughts are raised above 
This world, and all this world can give; 

Oh, sister, sing the song I love, 
And tears of gratitude receive. 

The song which thrills my bosom's core. 

And hovering, trembles, half afraid. 
Oh sister, sing the song once more 

Which ne'er for mortal ear was made. 



58 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

'Twere almost sacrilege to sing 

Those notes amid the glare of day; 
Notes borne by angel's purest wing, 

And wafted by their breath away. 

When sleeping in my grass-grown bed, 
Shouldst thou still linger here above, 

Wilt thou not kneel beside my head, 
And, sister, sing the song I love? 

We insert here a striking circumstance that occurred 
during a visit to her sister the following year. She 
was at that time employed in writing her longest 
published poem, -^Amir Khan." Immediately after 
breakfast she went to walk, and not returning to din- 
ner, nor even when the evening approached, Mr. 
Townsend set forth in search of her. He met her, 
and as her eye encountered his, she smiled and 
bhished, as if she felt conscious of having been a little 
ridiculous. She said she had called on a friend, and, 
having found her absent, had gone to her library, 
where she had been examining some volumes of an 
Encyclopedia to aid her, we believe, in the oriental 
story she was employed upon. She forgot her dinner 
and her tea, and had remained reading, standing, and 
with her hat on, till the disappearance of daylight 
brought her to her senses. In the interval betv/een 
her visits, she wrote several letters to her friends, 
which are chiefly interesting from the indications they 
afford of her social and affectionate spirit. We sub- 
join a few extracts. She had returned to Plattsburgh 
amid the bustle of a Fourth of July celebration. 



BIOGRAPHY. 59 

"We found/' she says, ''^oiir brother Yankees had 
turned out well to celebrate the Fourth. The wharf 
from tlie hill to the very edge of the water, even the 
rafts and sloops, were black with the crowd. If some 
very good genius, who presided over my destiny at 
that time, had not spread its protecting pinions around 
me, like everything else in my possession, I should 
have lost even my precious self. What a truly la- 
mentable accident it would have been just at that 
moment! We took a carriage, and were extricating 

ourselves from the crowd, when Mr. , who 

had pressed himself through, came to shake hands 

and bid good-bye. He is now on his way to . 

Well! here is health, happiness, and a bushel of love 
to all married people! Is it possible, you ask, that 
sister Lue could ever have permitted such a toast to 
pass her lips? We arrived safely at our good old 
home, and found everything as we left it. The chim- 
ney swallows had taken up their residence in the 
chimney, and rattled the soot from their sable habita- 
tions over the hearth and carpet. It looked like deso- 
lation indeed. The grass is high in the yard; the 
wild-roses, double-roses, and sweet-briars are in full 
bloom, and, take it all in all, the spot looks much as 
the garden of Eden did after the expulsion of Adam 
and Eve. We had just done tea when M. came in 
and sat an hour or two. What in the name of won- 
der could he have found to talk about all that time? 
Something, dear sister, you would not have thought 
of; something of so little consequence that the time he 
spent glided swiftly, almost unnoticed. I had him all 



60 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

to myself, tete-a-tete. I had almost forgotten to tell 
you I had yesterday a present of a most beautiful 
bouquet: I wore it to church in the afternoon; but it 
has withered and faded — 

" Withered like the world's treasures, 
Faded like the world's pleasures." 

From the sort of mystical girl-like allusions in the 
above extracts, to persons whose initials only are given, 
to bouquets and teie-a-tetes, we infer that she thus early 
had declared lovers even at this age, for she was not 
yet sixteen: her mother says she had resolved never 
to marry. " Her reasons," continues her mother, " for 
this decision were that her peculiar habits, her entire 
devotion to books, and scribbling (as she called it), 
unfitted her for the care of a family; she could not do 
justice to husband or children, while her whole soul 
was absorbed in literary pursuits; she was not willing 
to resign them for any man, therefore she had formed 
the resolution to lead a single life;" a resolution that 
would have lasted probably till she had passed under 
the dominion of a stronger passion than her love for 
the muses. With affections like hers, and a most lovely 
person and attractive manners, her resolution would 
scarcely have enabled her to escape the common des- 
tiny of her sex. — The following is an extract from a 
letter written after participating in several gay parties; 
*' Indeed my dear brother, I have turned round like a 
top, for the last two or three weeks, and am glad to 
seat myself once more in my favourite corner. How, 



BIOGRAPHY. 61 

think you, should I stand it to be whirled in the giddy- 
round of dissipation? I came home from the blaze of 
light, from the laugh of mirth, the smile of complai- 
sance, and seeming happiness, and the vision passes 
from my mind like the brilliant, but transitory hues of 
the rainbow; and I think with regret on the many, 
very many happy hours I have passed with you and 
Anne. Oh ! I do want to see you, indeed I do, — you 
think me wild, thoughtless,and perhaps unfeeling; but 
I assure I can be sober, I sometimes think, and I can 
and do feel. — Why have you not written? not one 
word in almost three weeks! Dear brother and sister, 
I must write; but dear Anne, I am now doomed to 
dim your eye and cloud your brow, for I know that 
what I have to communicate will surprise and distress 
you. Our dear cousin John is dead! Oh! I need not 
tell you how much, how deeply he is lamented; you 
know him, and like everyone else who did, you loved 
him. Poor Eliza! how my heart aches for her! her 
father, her mother, her brother,all gone; almost the last, 
the dearest tie is broken which bound her to life; what 
a vacancy must there be in her heart! how fatal would 
it prove to almost every hope in life, were we allowed 
even a momentary glimpse of futurity ! for often half 
the enjoyments of life consist in the anticipation of 
pleasures, which may never be ours." Soon after this 
Lucretia witnessed the death of a beloved young 
friend; it was the first death she had seen, and it had 
its natural effect on a reflecting and sensitive mind. 
Her thoughts wandered through eternity by the light 
of religion, the only light that penetrates beyond the 



63 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

death-bed. — She wrote many religions pieces; but as 
I hope another volume of her poems will be given to 
the public, I have merely selected the followmg: — 

Oh, that the eagle's wing were mine, 

I'd soar above the dreary earth; 
I'd spread my wings, and rise to join 

The immortal fountain of my birth. 

For what is joy? how soon it fades. 

The childish vision of an hour ! 
Though warm and brilliant are its shades, 

'Tis but a frail and fading flower. 

And what is hope] it is a light 

Which leads us on deluding ever, 
Till lost amid the shades of nig-ht 

AVe sink and then it flies forever! 

And what is love] it is a dream, 

A brilliant fable framed by youth; 
A bubble dancing on life's stream. 

And sinking 'neath the eye of truth. 

And what are honour, glory, fame, 

But death's dark watchwords to the grave; 

The victim dies, and lo! his name 
Is stamp'd in life's red rolling wave. 

And what are all the joys of life, 

But vanity, and toil, and woe; 
What but a bitter cup of grief, 

With dregs of sin and death below. 

This world is but the first death gate 
Unfolded to the wakening soul; 



BIOGRAPHY. [63 

But death unerring led by fate, 

Shall Heaven's bright portals backward roll. 

Then shall this unchained spirit fly 

On to the God who gave it life; 
Rejoicing as it soars on high, 

Released from danger, doubt, and strife. 

There will it pour its anthems forth, 

Ber)ding before its maker's throne; 
The great I AM, who gave it birth. 

The Almighty God, the dread unknown. 

During this winter her application to her books was 
so unremitting, that her parents again became alarmed 
for her health, and persuaded her occasionally to join 
in the amusements of Plattsburgh. She came home 
one night at twelve o'clock from a ball, and after giv- 
ing a most lively account of all she had seen and heard 
to her mother, she quietly seated herself at the table, 
and wrote her '^Reflections after Leaving a Ball-room.^' 
Her spirit, though it glided with kind sympathies into 
the common pleasures of youth, never seemed to re- 
lax its tie to the spiritual world. During the summer 
of 1824, Captain Partridge visited Plattsburgh, with 
his soldier scholars. 

Military display had its usual exciting effect on Miss 
Davidson's imagination, and she addressed " to the 
Vt, Cadets" the following spirited stanzas, which 
might have come from the martial Clorinda: — 

Pass on! for the bright torch of glory is beaming; 

Go, wreathe round your brows the green laurels of fame, 



64 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Around you a halo is brilliantly streaming, 
And history lingers to write down each name. 

Yes! ye are the pillars of liberty's throne; 

When around you the banner of glory shall wave, 

America proudly shall claim you her own; 

And freedom and honour shall pause o'er each grave! 

A watch-fire of glory, a beacon of light. 
Shall guide you to Honour, shall point you to Fame; 
The heart that shrinks back, be it buried in night. 
And withered with dim tears of sorrow and shame! 

Though death should await you, 'twere glorious to die 
With the glow of pure honour still warm on the brow; 
With a light sparkling brightly around the dim eye, 
Like the smile of a spirit still ling'ring below. 

Pass on, and when war, in his strength shall arise, 
Rush on to the conflict and conquer or die; 
Let the clash of your arms proudly roll to the skies; 
Be blest if victorious — and cursed if you fly! 



It was about this time that she finished "Amir 
Khan," and began a tale of some length which she 
entitled the "Recluse of the Saranac." "Amir 
Khan" has long been before the public, but we 
think it has suffered from a general and very natural 
distrust of precocious genius. The versification is 
graceful, the story beautifully developed, and the 
orientalism well sustained. We think it would 
not have done discredit to our best popular poets in 
the meridian of their fame: as the productions of a 
girl of fifteen it seems prodigious. — On her mother 



BIOGRAPHY. 65 

discovering and reading a part of her romance, Lu- 
cretia manifested her usual shrinkings, and with many 
tears exacted a promise that she would not again look 
at it till it was finished; she never again saw it till 
after her daughter's death. Lucretia had a most 
whimsical fancy for cutting sheets of paper into nar- 
row strips, sewing them together and writing on both 
sides; and once playfully boasting to her mother of 
having written some yards, she produced a roll, and 
forbidding her mother's approach, she measured off 
twenty yards! She often expressed a wish to spend 
one fortnight alone, even to the exclusion of her little 
pet-sister; and Mrs. Davidson, eager to afford her 
every gratification in her power, had a room prepared 
for her recess, her dinner was sent up to her, she 
declined coming down to tea, and her mother, on 
going to her apartment found her writing, — her plate 
untouched. 

Some secret joy it was natural her mother should 
feel at this devotion to intellectual pleasure; but her 
good sense or her maternal anxiety got the better of 
it, and she persuaded Lucretia to consent to the inter- 
ruption of a daily walk. It was about this period 
that she became acquainted with the gentleman who 
was destined to influence the brief space of life that 
remained to her. The late Hon. Moss Kent, with 
whom her mother had been acquainted for many 
years, previous to her marriage, had often been a 
guest at the house of Dr. Davidson, but it had so hap- 
pened that he had never met Lucretia since her early 
childhood. Struck with some little effusions which 
5 



66 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

were in the possession of his sister, Mrs. P , he 

went immediately to see Mrs. Davidson to ask the 
privilege of reading some of her last productions. 
On his way to the house he met Lucretia; he had 
been interested by the reputation of her genius and 
modesty; no wonder that the beautiful form in which 
it was enshrined should have called this interest ^nto 
sudden and effective action. Miss Davidson was just 
sixteen — her complexion was the most beautiful bru- 
nette, clear and brilliant, of that warm tint that seems 
to belong to lands of the sun rather than to our 
chilled regions, indeed her whole organization, mental, 
as well as physical, her deep and quick sensibility, 
her early development, were characteristics of a 
warmer clime than ours; her stature was of the mid- 
dle height, her form slight and symmetrical, her hair 
profuse, dark and curling, her mouth and nose regu- 
lar, and as beautiful as if they had been chiselled by 
an inspired artist; and through this fitting medium 
beamed her angelic spirit. " Mr. Kent with all the 
enthusiasm inherent in his nature, after examining 
her common-place book, resolved, if he could induce 
her parents to resign Lucretia to his care, to afford 
her every facility for improvement that could be ob- 
tained in the country — and in short he proposed to 
adopt her as his own child. Her parents took the 
subject into consideration, and complied so far with 
his benevolent wishes, as to permit him to take an 
active interest in her education, deferring to future 
consideration, the question of his adopting her. Had 
she lived, they would, no doubt, have consented to 



BIOGRAPHY. 67 

his plan. It was, after some deliberation, decided to 
send her a few months to the Troy Seminary, and on 
the same evening she wrote the following letter to 
her brother and sister: — 

"What think you? 'ere another moon shall fill 
round as my shield,' I shall be at Mrs. Willard's se- 
minary; in a fortnight I shall probably have left 
Plattsburgh, not to return at least until the expiration 
of six months. Oh! I am so delighted, so happy! 1 
shall scarcely eat, drink, or sleep for a month to come. 
You and Anne must both write to me often, and you 
must not laugh when you think of poor Lucy in the 
far-famed city of Troy, dropping handkerchiefs, keys, 
gloves, &c.; in short, something of everything I have. 
It is well if you can read what I have written, for 
papa and mamma are talking, and my head whirls 
like a top. Oh! how my poor head aches! Such a 
surprise as I have had!" 

On the 24th of November, 1824, she left home, 
health on her cheek and in her bosom, and flushed 
with the most ardent expectations of getting rapidly 
forward in the career her desires were fixed upon. 
But even at this moment her fond devotion to her 
mother was beautifully expressed in some stanzas, 
which she left where they would meet her eye as soon 
as the parting tears were wiped away. These stanzas 
are already published, and I shall only quote two 
from them, striking for their tenderness and truth. 

"To thee my lay is due, the simple song 

Which nature gave me at life's opening day; 



68 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

To thee these rude, these untaught strains belong, 
Whose heart, indulgent, will not spurn my lay! 

" Oh say, amid this wilderness of life 

What bosom would have throbbed like thine for mel 
Who would have smiled responsive] Who in grief 

' Would e'er have felt, and feeling, grieved like thee^ " 

The following extracts from her letters, which were 
always filled with yearnings for home, will show that 
her affections were the stronghold of her nature. 

" Troy Seminary, December 6th, 1824. Here I am 
at last; and what a naughty girl I was, when I was 
at Aunt Schuyler's, that I did not write you every- 
thing! But to tell the truth, I was topsyturvy, and 
so I am now; but in despite of calls from the young 
ladies, and of a hundred new faces, and new names 
which are constantly ringing in my ears, I have set 
myself down, and will not rise until I have written an 
account of everything to my dear mother. I am con- 
tented; yet, notwithstanding, I have once or twice 
turned a wishful glance towards my dear-loved home. 
Amidst all the parade of wealth, in the splendid apart- 
ments of luxury, I can assure you, my dearest mother, 
that I had rather be with you in our own lowly home^ 
than in the midst of all this ceremony." 

" Oh, mamma, I like Mrs. Willard. ' And so this 
is my girl, Mrs. Schuyler?' said she, and took me 
affectionately by the hand. Oh, I want to see you so 
much! But I must not think of it now. I must learn 
as fast as I can, and think only of my studies. Dear, 
dear little Margaret! kiss her and the little boys for 



BIOGRAPHY. 69 

me. How is dear father getting on in this rattUng 
world?" 

The letters that followed were tinged with melan- 
choly from her " bosom's depth," and her mother has 
withheld them. In a subsequent one she says, " I 
have written two long letters; but I wrote when I 
was ill, and they savor too much of sadness. I feel a 
little better now, and have again commenced my 
studies. Mr. K. called here to-day. Oh, he is very 
good! He stayed some time, and brought a great 
many books; but I fear I shall have little time to read 
aught but what appertains to my studies. I am con- 
sulting Kames's Elements of Criticism, studying 
French, attending to Geological lectures, composition, 
reading, paying some little attention to painting, and 
learning to dance." 

A subsequent letter indicated great unhappiness and 
debility, and awakened her mother's apprehensions. 
The next was written more cheerfully. " As I fly to 
you," she says, " for consolation in all my sorrows, so 
I turn to you, my dear, mother, to participate in all my 
joys. The clouds that enveloped my mind have dis- 
persed, and I turn to you with a far lighter heart than 
when I last wrote. The ever kind Mr. K. called yes- 
terday." She then describes the paternal interest he 
took in her health and happiness, expresses a trem- 
bling apprehension lest he should be disappointed in 
the amount of her improvement, and laments the loss 
of time from her frequent indispositions. " How, my 
dear mother," she says, " shall I express my gratitude 
to my kind, my excellent friend? What is felt as 



70 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

deeply as I feel this obligation, cannot be expressed; 
but I can feel, and do feel." It must be remembered 
that these were not formal and obligatory letters to 
her guardian, but the spontaneous overflowing of her 
heart in her private correspondence with her mother. 

We now come to a topic, to which we would ask 
the particular attention of our readers. Owing to 
many causes, but chiefly we believe, to the demand 
for operatives in every department of society in our 
country, the work of school education is crowded into 
a very few years. The studies, instead of being select- 
ed, spread through the whole circle of sciences. The 
school period is the period of the young animal's phy- 
sical growth and development; the period when the 
demands of the physical nature are strongest, and the 
mental weakest. Then our young men are immured 
in colleges, law schools, divinity schools, &.C., and our 
young ladies in boarding schools, where, even in the 
best regulated, the provisions for exercise in the open 
air are very insufficient. In the city schools, we are 
aware, that the difficulties to be overcome to achieve 
this great object are nearly insuperable, we believe 
quite so; and, if they are so, should" not these estab- 
lishments be placed in the country? Are not health 
and physical vigour the basis of mental health and 
vigour, of usefulness and happiness? What a pro- 
portion of the miseries of the more favoured classes 
of our females result from their invalidism! What 
feebleness of purpose, weakness of execution, dejec- 
tion, fretfulness, mental and moral imbecility! 

The case wotild not be so bad, if the misery ended 



BIOGRAPHY. 71 

with one generation, with the mother cut off in the 
midst of her days, or dragging on to three-score and 
ten, her unenjoyed and profitless existence. But that 
is not so: there are hosts of living witnesses in the 
sickly, pale, drooping children of our nurseries. There 
are multitudes who tell us, that our climate will not 
permit a delicate female to exercise in the open air. 
If the climate is bad, so much the more important is 
it to acquire strength to resist it. Besides, if out-of- 
door exercise is not at all times attractive, we know it 
is not impossible. We know delicately bred females, 
who during some of our hardest winters, have not for 
more than a day or two lost their exercise abroad. 
When, in addition to the privation of pleasurable ex- 
ercise, (for the walk in funeral procession, attended 
by martinets, and skewered by city decorums, can 
scarcely be called pleasurable^) the school girl is con- 
fined to her tasks from eight to ten hours in rooms 
sometimes too cold, sometimes too hot, where her 
fellow sufferers are en masse, can we wonder at the 
result? 

How far this evil may have operated in shortening 
the life of Lucretia Davidson, we cannot say; but we 
cannot but think, that her devoted and watchful friend 
erred in sending a creature so delicate in her constitu- 
tion to any boarding school, even the best conducted 
institution. We certainly do not mean to express or 
imply any censure of the " Troy Seminary." We 
have no personal knowledge of it; but we believe no 
similar institution has more the confidence of the com- 



72 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

munity ; and, as it has been now many years established 
and tried, it is fair to beheve it deserves it. 

An arrangement of these boarding schools, that 
bore very hard upon Miss Davidson, was the public 
examination.* These examinations are appalling to 
a sensitive mind. Could they be proved to be of man- 
ifest advantage to the scolarship of the young ladies, 
we should doubt their utility on the whole. But even 
where they are conducted with perfect fairness, are 
they a test of scholarship? Do not the bold outface, 
and the indolent evade them? The studious are stimu- 
lated, and the sensitive and shrinking, if stimulated, 
are appalled and disconcerted by them, so that the 
condiment affects those only, whose appetites are 
already too keen. 

But the experience of Miss Davidson is more per- 
suasive than any reasoning of ours, and we shall give 
it in her own language, in occasional extracts from 
her letters to her mother. 

"We now begin to dread the examination. Oh, 
horrible! seven weeks, and I shall be posted up before 

* I did not intend remarking upon the influence these exami- 
nations have on the scholar's progress; but I cannot forbear 
quoting the following pertinent passage from President Hopkins' 
Inaugural Address. " There are not wanting schools in this 
country, in which the real interests and progress of the pupils 
are sacrificed to their appearance at examination. But the vanity 
of parents must be flattered, and the memory is overburdened, 
and studies are forced on prematurely, and a system of infant- 
school instruction is carried forward into maturer life." 



BIOGRAPHY. 73 

all Troy, all the students from Schenectady, and per- 
haps five hundred others. What shall I do?" 

" I have just received a note from Mr. K. in which 
he speaks of your having written to him of my illness. 
I was indeed ill, and very ill for several days, and in 
my deepest dejection wrote to you; but do not, my 
dearest mother, be alarmed about me. My appetite 
is not perfectly good, but quite as well as when I was 
at home. The letter was just such a one as was 
calculated to soothe my feelings, and set me completely 
at rest. He expressed a wish that my stay here 
should be prolonged. What think you, mother? I 
should be delighted by such an arrangement. This 
place really seems quite like home to me, though not 
my own dear home. I like Mrs. Willard, I love the 
girls, and I have the vanity to think I am not actually 
disagreeable to them." 

We come now to another expression (partly serious, 
and partly bantering, for she seems to have uniformly 
respected her instructress) of her terrors of "examina- 
tion." 

"We are all engaged, heart and hand, preparing 
for this awful examination. Oh, how I dread it! But 
there is no retreat. I must stand firm to my post, or 
experience all the anger, vengeance and punishments, 
which will in case of delinquency or flight, be exer- 
cised with the most unforgiving acrimony. We are 
in such cases excommunicated, henceforth and for 
ever, under the awful ban of holy Seminary; and the 
evil eye of false report is upon us. Oh mamma, I do 
though, jesting apart, dread this examination; but 



74 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

nothing short of real and absolute sickness can excuse 
a scholar in the eyes of Mrs. Willard. Even that 
will not do it to the Trojan world around us; for if a 
young lady is ill at examination, they say with a sneer, 
"Oh, she is ill of an examination fever P' Thus you 
see, mamma, we have no mercy either from friends 
or foes. We must ^ do or die.^ Tell Morris he must 
write to me. Kiss dear, dear little Margaret for me, 
and don't let her forget poor sister Luly, and tell all 
who inquire for me that I am well, but in awful dread 
of a great examination." 

The following extract is from a letter to her friends, 
who had written under the impression, that all letters 
received by the young ladies were, of course, read by 
some one of the officers of the institution. 

"Lo! just as I was descending from the third story, 
(for you must know I hold my head high,) your letter 
was put into my hands. Poor little wanderer! I really 
felt a sisterly compassion for the poor little folded pa- 
per. I kissed it for the sake of those who sent it forth 
into the wide world, and put it into my bosom. But 
oh, when I read it! Now, Anne, I will tell you the 
truth; it was cold, perhaps it was written on one of 
your cold Canada days, or perchance it lost a little he at 
on the way. It did not seem to come from the very 
heart of hearts; it looked as though it were writ- 
ten " to a young lady at the Troy Seminary," not 
to your dear, dear, dear sister Liily. Mr. K. has thus 
far been a father to me, and I thank him; but I will 
not mock my feelings by attempting to say how much 
I thank him." 



BIOGRAPHY. 75 

"My dear mother! oh how I wish I could lay my 
head upon your bosom! I hope you do not keep my 
letters, for I certainly have burned all yours,* and I 
stood like a little fool and wept over their ashes, and 
when I saw the last one gone, I felt as though I had 
parted with my last friend.'^ Then, after expressing 
an earnest wish that her mother would destroy her let- 
ters, she says, " They have no connection. When I 
write, everything comes crowding upon me at once; 
my pen moves too slow for my brain and my heart, 
and I feel vexed at myself, and tumble in everything 
together, and a choice medley yon have of it." 

"I attended Mr. Bull's public (assembly) last night, 
and had a delightful evening; but now for something 
of more importance — Ex-am-i-na-tion! I had just 
begun to be engaged, heart and hand, preparing for it, 
when by some means, I took a violent cold. I was 
unable to raise my voice above a whisper, and cough- 
ed incessantly. On the second day, Mrs. Willard sent 
for Dr. Robbins; he said I must be bled, and take an 
emetic; this was sad; but oh, mamma, I could not 
speak nor breathe without pain.'^ There are further 
details of pains, remedies, and consequent exhaustion; 
and yet this fragile and precious creature was permit- 
ted by her physician and friends, kind and watchful 
friends too, to proceed in her suicidal preparations for 
examination! There was nothing uncommon in this 
injudiciousness. Such violations of the laws of our 



* This was in consequence of a positive command from her 
mother. 



76 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

physical nature are every day committed by persons, 
in other respects, the wisest and the best, and our poor 
Uttle martyr may not have suffered in vain, if her ex- 
perience awakens attention to the subject. 

In the letter from which we have quoted above, and. 
which is filled with expressions of love for the dear 
ones at home, she continues: " Tell Morris I will an- 
swer his letter in full next quarter, but now I fear I am 
doing wrong, for I am yet quite feeble, and when I 
get stronger, I shall be very avaricious of my time, in 
order to prepare for the coming week. 

" We must study morning, noon, and night. I shall 
rise between two and four noiu every mornings till 
the dreaded day is past. I rose the other night at 
twelve, but was ordered back to bed again. You see 
mamma, I shall have a chance to become an early 
riser here." ^^ Had I not written you that I was com- 
ing home, I think I should not have seen you this win- 
ter. All my friends think I had better remain here, 
as the journey will be long and cold; but oh! there is 
at that journey's end, which would tempt me through 
the wilds of Siberia — father, mother, brothers, sisters, 
home. Yes, I shall come.'' 

We insert some stanzas, written about this time, not 
so much for their poetical merit, as for the playful 
spirit that beams through them, and which seems like 
sunbeams smiling on a cataract. 

A WEEK BEFORE EXAMINATION. 

One has a headache, one a cold, 
One has her neck in flannel rolled; 



BIOGRAPHY. 77 

Ask the complaint, and you are told 

' Next week's examination.' 

One frets and scolds, and laughs and cries, 
Another hopes, despairs, and sighs; 
Ask but the cause, and each replies, 

' Next week's examination.' 

One bans her books, then grasps them tight, 
And studies morning, noon, and night, 
As though she took some strange delight 
' In these examinations.' 

The books are marked, defaced, and thumbed, 
The brains with midnight tasks benumbed. 
Still all in that account is summed, 

' Next week's examination.' 

In a letter, February 10th, she says, " The dreaded 
work of examination is now going on, my dear mo- 
ther. To-morrow evening, which will be the last, is 
always the most crowded, is the time fixed upon for 
my entree upon the field of action. Oh! I hope I 
shall not disgrace myself. It is the rule here to reserve 
the best classes till the last; so 1 suppose I may take it 
as a compliment that we are delayed." 

" February 12th. The examination is over. E 

E did herself and her native village honour; but 

as for your poor Luly, she acquitted herself, I trust, 
decently! Oh! mamma, I was so frightened! but, 
although my face glowed and my voice trembled, I 
did make out to get through, for I knew my lessons. 
The room was crowded almost to suffocation. All 
was still — the fall of a pin could have been heard — 



78 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

and I tremble when I think of it even now." No one 
can read these melancholy records without emotion. 

Her visit home during the vacation was given up, 
in compliance with the advice of her guardian. " I 
wept a good long hour or so," she says, with her 
characteristic gentle acquiescence, " and then made up 
my mind to be content." 

In her next letter she relates an incident very 
striking in her eventful life. 

It occurred in returning to Troy, after her vacation, 
passed happily with her friends in the vicinity. 
" Uncle went to the ferry with me," she says, " where 
we met Mr. Paris. Uncle placed me under his care, 
and, snugly seated by his side, I expected a very plea- 
sant ride, with a very pleasant gentleman. All was 
pleasant, except that we expected every instant that 
all the ice in the Hudson would come drifting against 
us, and shut in scow, stage, and all, or sink us to the 
bottom, which, in either case, you know, mother, 
would not have been quite so agreeable. We had 
just pushed from the shore, I watching the ice with 
anxious eyes, when, lo! the two leaders made a tre- 
mendous plunge, and tumbled headlong into the river. 
I felt the carriage following fast after; the other two 
horses pulled back with all their power, but the lead- 
ers were dragging them down, dashing and plunging, 
and flouncing in the water. ' Mr. Paris, in mercy let 
us get out!' said I. But, as he did not see the horses, 
he felt no alarm. The moment I informed him they 
were overboard, he opened the door, and cried, 'Get 
out and save yourself, if possible; I am old and stiff. 



BIOGRAPHY. . 79 

but I will follow in an instant.' ' Oat with the lady! 
let the lady out!' shouted several voices at once; ^ the 
other horses are about to plunge, and then all will be 
over.' I made a lighter spring than many a lady 
does in a cotillon, and jumped upon a cake of ice. 
Mr. Paris followed, and we stood, (I trembling like a 
leaf,) expecting every instant that the next plunge of 
the drowning horses would detach the piece of ice 
upon which we were standing, and send us adrift; but, 
thank Heaven, after working for ten or fifteen minutes, 
by dint of ropes, and cutting them away from the 
other horses, they dragged the poor creatures out more 
dead than alive. 

" Mother, don't you think I displayed some cou- 
rage? I jumped into the stage again, and shut the 
door, while Mr. Paris remained outside, watching the 
movement of affairs. We at length reached here, and 
I am alive, as you see, to tell the story of my woes." 

In her next letter she details a conversation with 
Mrs. Willard, full of kind commendation and good 
counsel. " Mamma," she concludes, " you would be 
justified in thinking me a perfect lump of vanity and 
egotism; but I have always related to you every 
thought, every action of my life. I have had no con- 
cealments from you, and I have stated these matters 
to you because they fill me with surprise. Who 
would think the accomplished Mrs. Willard would 
admire my poor daubing, or my poor anything else ! 
Oh, dear mamma, I am so happy now! so contented! 
Every unusual movement startles me. I am con- 
stantly afraid of something to mar it." 



80 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

The next extract is from a letter, the emanation of 
her affectionate spirit, to a favourite brother seven 
years old. • 

"DearL ■, I am obliged to you for your two 

very interesting epistles, and much doubt whether I 
could spell more ingeniously myself. Really, I have 
some idea of sending them to the printers, to be struck 
off in imitation of a Chinese puzzle. Your questions 
about the stars I have been cogitating some time past, 
and am of the opinion, that, if there are beings inha- 
biting those heavenly regions, they must be content to 
feed, cameleon-like, upon air; for even were we dis- 
posed to spare them a portion of our earth sufficient 
to plant a garden, I doubt whether the attraction of 
gravitation would not be too strong for resistance, and 
the unwilling clod return to its pale brethren of the 
valley ' to rest in ease inglorious.' So far from burn- 
ing your precious letters, my dear little brother, I care- 
fully preserve them in a little pocket-book, and when 
I feel lonely and desolate, and think of my dear home, 
I turn them over and over again. Do write often, my 
sweet little correspondent, and believe me," &c. &c. 

Her next letter to her mother, written in March, 
was in a melancholy strain; but as if to avert her 
parent's consequent anxieties, she concludes: 

" I hope you will feel no concern for my health or 
happiness. Do, my dear mother, try to be cheerful, 
and have good courage." 

" I have been to the Rennsselaer school, to attend 
the philosophical lectures. They are delivered by the 
celebrated Mr. Eaton, who has several students, 



BIOGRAPHY. 81 

young gentlemen. I hope thev will not lose their 
hearts among twenty or thirty pretty girls. For my 
part, I kept my eyes fixed as fast as might be upon 
the good old lecturer, as I am of the opinion, that he 
is the best possible safeguard, with his philosophy and 
his apparatus; for you know philosophy and love are 
sworn enemies!" 

Miss Davidson returned to Plattsburgh during the 
spring vacation. Her mother, when the first rapture 
of reunion was over, the first joy at finding her child 
unchanged in the modesty and naturalness of her de- 
portment, and fervor of her affections, became alarmed 
at the indications of disease, in the extreme fragility of 
her person, and the deep and fluctuating colour of her 
cheek. Lucretia insisted, and, deceived by that ever 
deceiving disease, believed she was well. She was 
gay and full of hope, and could hardly be persuaded 
to submit to her father's medical prescriptions; but the 
well known crimson spot, that so often flushed her 
cheek, was regarded by him with the deepest anxiety, 
and he shortly called counsel. During her stay at 
home she wrote a great deal. Like the bird, which 
is to pass away with the summer, she seems to have 
been ever on the wing, pouring forth the spontaneous 
melodies of her soul. The following are a few stanzas 
from a piece 

«' ON SPRING." 

"I have seen the fair Spring, I have heard her sweet song", 
As she passed in her lightness and freshness along; 
6 



82 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

The blue wave rolled deeper, the moss-crest looked bright. 
As she breathed o'er the regions of darkness and night. 

*' I have seen the rose bloom on the youthful cheek, 
And the dew of delight 'neath the bright lash break; 
The bounding footstep, scarce pressing the earth, 
And the lip which speaks of a soul of mirth. 

" I have seen the winter with brow of care. 
With his soulless eye and his snow white hair; 
And whate'er his footsteps had touched was cold. 
As the lifeless stone which the sculptors mould. 

tP * -S* ^ * 'F tP 'I^ 

" As I knelt by the sepulchre, dreary and lone, 
Lay the beautiful form in its temple of stone; 
I looked for its coming, — the warm wind passed by,— • 
1 looked for its coming on earth and on high. 

"The young leaves gleamed brightly around the cold spot, 
I looked for the spirit, yet still it came not. 
Shall the flower of the valley burst forth to the light, 
And man in his beauty lie buried in night? 

" A voice on the waters, a voice in the sky, 
A voice from beneath, and a voice from on high, 
Proclaims that he shall not, — that Spring, in her light, 
Shall waken the spirit from darkness and night." 

These were singular speculations for a beautiful girl 
of sixteen. Were there not spirits ministering to her 
from that world to which she was hastening? 

The physician, called in to consult with her father, 
was of opinion that a change of air and scene would 
probably restore her, and it was decided that she 
should return to schooL Miss Gilbert's boarding 



BIOGRAPHY. 83 

school at Albany was selected for the next six months. 
There are few more of her productions of any sort, 
and they seem to us to have the sweetness of the last 
roses of summer. The following playful passages are 
from her last letter at home to her sister in Canada. 

" The boat will be here in an hour or two, and I 
am all ready to start. Oh, I am half sick. I have 
taken several doses of something quite delectable for 
a visiting treat. Now," she concludes her letter, "by 
your affection for me, by your pity for the wanderer, 
by your remembrance of the absent, by your love for 
each other, and by all that is sacred to an absent 
friend, I charge you, write to me, and write often. As 
ye hope to prosper, as ye hope your boy to prosper, 
(and grow fal!) as ye hope for my gratitude and affec- 
tion now and hereafter, I charge you, write. If ye 
sinfully neglect this last solemn injunction of a parting 
friend, my injured spirit will visit you in your trans- 
gressions. It shall pierce you with goosequills, and 
hurl down upon your recreant heads the brimming 
contents of the neglected inkstand. This is my threat 
and this is my vengeance. But if, on the contrary, ye 
shall see fit to honour me with numerous epistles, 
which shall be duly answered, know ye, that I will 
live and love you, and not only you, but your boy, 
<to be beloved, or not to be beloved!' They have 
come! Farewell, a long farewell!" — 

She proceeded to Albany, and in a letter dated May 
12th, 1825, she seems delighted with her reception, ac- 
commodations, and prospects, at Miss Gilbert's school. 
She has yet no anxieties about her health, and enters 



84 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

on her career of study with her customary ardour. 
With the most delicate health and constant occupa- 
tion, she found time always to write long letters to 
her mother, and the little children at home, filled with 
fond expressions. What an example and rebuke to 
the idle school girl who finds no time for these minor 
duties! But her studies, to which she applied herself 
beyond her strength, from the conscientious fear of not 
fulfilling the expectations of her friends, were exhaust- 
ing the sources of life. Her letters teem with expres- 
sions of gratitude to her Mr. K , to Miss Gilbert, 

and to all the friends around her. She complains of 
debility and want of appetite, but imputes all her ail- 
ings to not hearing regularly from home. The mails 
were of course at fault, for her mother's devotion never 
intermitted. The following expressions will show 
that her sensibility, naturally acute, was rendered 
intense by physical disease and suffering. 

" Oh, my dear mother, cannot you send your Luly 
one line. Not one word in two weeks! I have done 
nothing but weep all day long. I feel so wretchedly! 
I am afraid you are ill.'' 

" I am very wretched, indeed I am. My dear mo- 
ther, am I never to hear from you again? I am home- 
sick, I know I dim foolish; but I cannot help it. To 
tell the truth, I am half sick. I am so weak, so lan- 
guid, I cannot eat. I am nervous, I know I am; I 
weep most of the time. I have blotted the paper so, 
that I cannot write. I cannot study much longer if I 
do not hear from you." 

Letters from home renovated her for a few days, 



BIOGRAPHY. 85 

and at Mr. K.'s request, she went to the theatre, and 
gave herself up, with all the freshness of youthful 
feeling, to the spells of the drama, and raved about 
Hamlet and Ophelia like any other school girl. 

But her next letter recurs to her malady, and for the 
first time, she expresses a fear that her disease is 
beyond the reach of common remedies. Her mother 
was alarmed, and would have gone immediately to 
her, but she was herself confined to her room by ill- 
ness. Her father's cooler judgment inferred from their 
receiving no letters from Lucretia's friends, that there 
was nothing immediately alarming in her symptoms. 

The next letter removed every doubt. It was 
scarcely legible; still she assures her mother she is 
better, and begs she will not risk the consequences of 
a long journey. But neither health nor life weighed 
now with the mother against seeing her child. She 
set oft', and by appointment, joined Mr. K. at White- 
hall. They proceeded thence to Albany, where, after 
the first emotions of meeting were over, Lucretia said, 
" Oh mamma, I thought I should never have seen you 
again! But, now I have you here, and can lay my 
aching head upon your bosom, I shall soon be better." 

For a few days the balm seemed effectual; she was 
better, and the physicians believed she would recover; 
but her mother was no longer to be persuaded from 
her conviction of the fatal nature of the disease, and 
arrangements were immediately made to convey her 
to Plattsburgh. The journey was effected, notwith- 
standing it was during the heats of July, with less 
physical suff'ering than was apprehended. She shrunk 



S6 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

painfully from the gaze her beauty inevitably attract- 
ed, heightened as it was by that disease which seems 
to delight to deck the victim for its triumph. ^^ Her 
joy upon finding herself at home," says her mother, 
" operated for a time like magic." The sweet health- 
giving influence of domestic love, the home atmo- 
sphere, seemed to suspend the progress of her disease, 
and again her father, brothers and friends were de- 
luded; all but the mother and the sufferer. She looked, 
with prophetic eye, calmly to the end. There was 
nothing to disturb her. That kingdom that eometh 
" whhout observation" was within her, and she was 
only about to change its external circumstances, about 
to put off the harness of life in which she had been so 
patient and obedient. To the last she manifested her 
love of books. A trunk filled with them had not been 
unpacked. She requested her mother to open it at her 
bed-side, and as each book was given to her, she turn- 
ed over the leaves, kissed it, and desired to have it 
placed on a table at the foot of her bed. There they 
remained to the last, her eye often fondly resting on 
them. 

She expressed a strong desire to see Mr. Kent once 
more, and a fear that though he had been summoned, 
he might not arrive in time. He came, however, to 
receive the last expressions of her gratitude, and to hear 
his own name the last pronounced by her lips. 

The *• Fear of Madness" was written by her while 
confined to her bed, and was the last piece she ever 
wrote. As it constitutes a part of the history of her 
disease, it is, though already published, inserted here. 



BIOGRAPHY. S7 

There is a something which I dread, 

It is a dark, and fearful thing; 
It steals along with withering tread, 

Or sweeps on wild destruction's wing. 

That thought comes o'er me in the hour 
Of grief, of sickness, or of sadness: 

'Tis not the dread of death; 'tis more, — 
It is the dread of madness. 

Oh! may these throbbing pulses pause. 

Forgetful of their feverish course; 
May this hot brain, which, burning, glows 

With all a fiery whirlpool's force. 

Be cold and motionless, and still 

A tenant of its lowly bed; 
But let not dark delirium steal — 
(Unfinished.) 

That the records of the last scenes of Lncretia 
Davidson's life are scanty, is not surprising. The 
materials for this memoirj it must be remembered, 
were furnished by her mother. A victim stretched 
on the rack cannot keep records. She says in general 
terms, "Lucretia frequently spoke to me of her ap- 
proaching dissoUuion, with perfect calmness, and as 
an event that must soon take place. In a conversa- 
tion with Mr. Townsend, held at intervals, as her 
strength would permit, she expressed the same senti- 
ments she expressed to me before she grew so weak. 
She declared her firm faith in the Christian religion, 
her dependence on the divine promises, which she 
said had consoled and sustained her during her illness. 



88 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

She said her hopes of salvation were grounded on the 
merits of her Saviour, and that death, which had 
once looked so dreadful to her, was now divested of 
all its terrors." 

Welcome, indeed, should that messenger have been, 
that opened the gates of knowledge, and blissful im- 
mortality, to such a spirit! 

During Miss Davidson's residence in Albany, which 
was less than three months, she wrote several miscel- 
laneous pieces, and began a long poem, divided into 
cantos, and entitled "Maritorne, or the Pirate of 
Mexico.'' This she deemed better than anything she 
had previously produced. The amount of her com- 
positions, considering the shortness and multifarious 
occupations of a life less than seventeen years, is sur- 
prising.* 

We copy the subjoined paragraph from the biogra- 
phical sketch prefixed to " Amir Khan." " Her poe- 
tical writings, which have been collected, amount in 
all to two hundred and seventy-eight pieces of various 
lengths. When it is considered, that there are among 
these at least five regular poems, of several cantos 
each, some estimate may be formed of her poetical 
labours. Besides these were twenty-four school ex- 
ercises, three unfinished romances, a complete tragedy, 
written at thirteen years of age, and about forty let- 
ters, in a few months, to her mother alone." This 



* She died on the 27th of August, 1825, just a month before 
her seventeenth birthday. 



BIOGRAPHY. 89 

statement does not comprise the large proportion (at 
least one third of the whole) which she destroyed. 

The genius of Lucretia Davidson has had the meed 
of far more authoritative praise than ours. The 
following tribute is from the *^ London Quarterly 
Review;" a source whence praise of American pro- 
ductions is as rare as springs in the desert. The 
notice is by Mr. Southey, and is written with the 
earnest feeling that characterizes that author, as gene- 
rous as he is discriminating. " In these poems" (Amir 
Khan, &c.) " there is enough of originality, enough 
of aspiration, enough of conscious energy, enough of 
growing power to warrant any expectations, however 
sanguine, which the patrons and the friends, and pa- 
rents of the deceased could have formed." 

But, prodigious as the genius of this young creature 
was, still marvellous after all the abatements that 
may be made for precociousness and morbid deve- 
lopment, there is something yet more captivating in 
her moral loveliness. Her modesty was not the 
infusion of another mind, not the result of cultivation, 
not the effect of good taste; nor was it a veil cau- 
tiously assumed and gracefully worn; but an innate 
quality, that made her shrink from incense, even 
though the censer were sanctified by love. Her 
mind was like the exquisite mirror, that cannot be 
stained by human breath. 

Few may have been gifted with her genius, but all 
can imhate her virtues. There is a universality in the 
holy sense of duty, that regulated her life. Few young 
ladies will be called on to renounce the muses for do- 



90 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

mestic duties; but many may imitate Liicretia David- 
son's meek self-sacrifice, by relinquishing some favour- 
ite pursuit, some darling object, for the sake of an 
humble and unpraised duty; and, if few can attain her 
excellence, all may imitate her in gentleness, humility, 
industry, and fidelity to her domestic affections. We 
may apply to her the beautiful lines, in which she de- 
scribes one of those 

" forms, that, wove in Fancy's loom, 



Float in light visions round the poet's head." 

" She was a being formed to love and bless. 
With lavish nature's richest loveliness; 
Such I have often seen in Fancy's eye, 
Beings too bright for dull mortality. 
I've seen them in the visions of the night, 
I've faintly seen them when enough of light 
And dim distinctness gave them to my gaze, 
As forms of other worlds, or brighter days." 

This memoir may be fitly concluded by the follow- 
ing "Tribute to the Memory of my Sister/' by Mar- 
garet Davidson, who was but two years old at the 
time of Lucretia's death, and whom she often men- 
tions with peculiar fondness. The lines were written 
at the age of eleven. May we be allowed to say, that 
the mantle of the elder sister has fallen on the younger, 
and that she seems to be a second impersonation of 
her spirit? 

" Though thy freshness and beauty are laid in the tomb. 
Like the floweret which drops in its verdure and bloom; 



BIOGRAPHY. 91 

Though the halls of thy childhood now mourn thee in vain, 
And thy strains shall ne'er waken their echoes again, 
Still o'er the fond memory they silently glide. 
Still, still thou art ours, and America's pride. 
Sing on, thou pure seraph, with harmony crowned. 

And pour the full tide of thy music along. 
O'er the broad arch of Heaven the sweet note shall resound, 

And a bright choir of angels shall echo the song. 
The pure elevation which beamed from thine eye. 
As it turned to its home in yon fair azure sky, 
Told of something unearthly; it shone with the light 
Of pure inspiration and holy delight. 
Round the rose that is withered a fragrance remains; 
O'er beauty in ruins the mind proudly reigns. 
Thy lyre has resounded o'er ocean's broad wave. 
And the tear of deep anguish been shed o'er thy grave; 
But thy spirit has mounted to mansions on high. 
To the throne of its God, where it never can die." 



POETICAL REMAINS. 



AN ADDRESS TO MY MUSE. 

(Written in her fourteenth year.) 

Why, gentle Muse, wilt thou disdain 

To lend thy strains to me? 
Why do I supplicate in vain 

And vow my heart to thee? 

Oh ! teach me how to touch the lyre, 
To tune the trembling chord; 

Teach me to fill each heart with fire, 
And melting strains afford. 

Sweep but thy hand across the string, 
The woodlands echo round, 

And mortals wond'ring, as you sing. 
Delighted catch each sound. 

Enchanted when thy voice I hear, 

I drop each earthly care; 
I feel as wafted from the world 

To Fancy's realms of air. 

Then as I wander, plaintive sing, 
And teach me every strain; 

Teach me to touch the trembling siring 
Which now I strike in vain. 



AMIR KHAN. 



AMIR KHAN 

(Written in her sixteenth year.) 



PART I. 



Brightly o'er spire, and dome, and tower. 
The pale moon shone at midnight hour, 
While all beneath her smile of light 
Was resting there in calm delight; 
Evening with robe of stars appears, 
Bright as repentant Peri's tears, 
And o'er her turban's fleecy fold 
Night's crescent streamed its rays of gold. 
While every crystal cloud of Heaven 
Bowed as it passed the queen of even. 

Beneath — calm Cashmere's lovely vale^ 
Breathed perfumes to the sighing gale; 
The amaranth and tuberose, 
Convolvulus in deep repose, 
Bent to each breeze which swept their bed, 
Or scarcely kiss'd the dew and fled; 
The bulbul, with his lay of love;^ 
Sang 'mid the stillness of the grove; 



100 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

The gulnare blushed a deeper hue,^ 
And tremblmg shed a shower of dew, 
Which perfumed e'er it kiss'd the ground, 
Each zephyr's pinion hovering round. ^ 
The lofty plane-tree's haughty brow* 
Glitter'd beneath the moon's pale glow; 
And wide the plantain's arms were spread,^ 
The guardian of its native bed. 

Where was Amreta at this hour? 

Say! was she slumbering in her bower? 

Or gazing on this scene of rest, 

Less calm, less peaceful than her breast? 

Or was she resting in the dream 

Of brighter days on Fortune's stream? 

Or was she weeping Friendship broken, 

Or sighing o'er Love's withered token? 

No! — She was calmly resting there, 
Her eye nor spoke of hope nor fear. 
But, 'mid the blaze of splendour round. 
For ever bent upon the ground, 
Their long, dark lashes hid from view, 
The brilliant glances which they threw. 
Her cheek was neither pale nor red; 
The rose, upon its summer-bed. 
Could never boast so faint a hue, 
So faint, and yet so brilliant too ! 

Though round her. Cashmere's incense streamed; 
Though Persia's gems around her beamed; 



POETICAL REMAINS. 101 

Though diamonds of Golconda shed 

Their warmest histre o'er her head; 

Though music hilled each fear to sleep, 

Soft as the night-wind o'er the deep; 

Just waking love and calm delight, 

Kindling Hope's watch-fire clear and bright; 

For her, though Cashmere's roses twine 

Together round the parent vine; 

And though to her. as Cashmere's star, 

Knelt the once haughty Subahdar;^ 

Still, still Amreta gazed unmoved, 

Nor sighed, nor smiled, nor owned she loved! 

But like the Parian marble there, 

As bright, as exquisitely fair. 

She seemed by Nature formed to be, 

A being purely heavenly. 

But never from those lips of red 

A single syllable had fled. 

Since Amir Khan first bless'd the hour^ 

That placed Amreta in his bower; 

Within that bower 'mid twining roses, 

Upon whose leaves the breeze reposes, 

She sits unmoved, while round her flow, 

Strains of sweet music, sad, and low, 

Or now in softer numbers breathing, 

A song of love and sorrow wreathing. 

Such strains as in wild sweetness ran 

Through the sad breast of Amir Khan ! 

He lov'd, — and oh! — he loved so well 
That sorrow scarce dared break the spell; 



102 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON, 

Though oft Suspicion whispered near 
One vague, one sadly boding fear, 
A fear that Heaven in wrath had made 
That face with seraph-charms array'd, 
And then denied in mockery there, 
A heart within a form so fair! — 

* * * * * * 

Cool and refreshing sighs the breeze 
Through the long walk of tzinnar trees,^ 
And cool upon the water's breast 
The pale moon rocks herself to rest, — 
Yes! calmer, brighter, cooler far 
Than the fever'd brow of the Subahdar! 

Amreta was fair as the morning beam 
As it gilds the wave of the Wuller's stream,^ 
But oh, she was cold as the marble floor 
That glitters beneath the nightly shower. 
Where was that eye which none could scan. 
Which once belonged to Amir Khan? 
Where was that voice that mocked the storm; 
Where was that tall, majestic form? 
That eye was turn'd in love and wo 
Upon Amreta's changeless brow. 
That haughty form was bending low. 
That voice was utt'ring vow on vow. 
Beneath the lofty plane-tree's shade. 
Before that cold Circassian maid ! 

" Oh speak! Amreta — but one word! 
Let one soft sigh confess I'm heard! 



POETICAL REMAINS. io3 

Those eyes, (than those of yon gazelle 
More bright,) a tale of love might tell! 
Then speak, Amreta! raise thine eye, 
Blush, smile, or answer with one sigh." 

But 'twas in vain — no sigh — no word 
Told that his humble suit was heard: 
Veiled 'neath their silken lashes there, 
Her dark eyes glanc'd no answer'd prayer, 
Upon her cheek no blush was straying. 
Around her lip no smile was playing, 
And calm despair reigned darkly now, 
O'er Amir Khan's deep-clouded brow. 

What pity that so fair a form 

Should want a heart with feeling warm! 

What pity that an eye so bright 

Should beam o'er Reason's clouded night! 

And like a star in Mahmoud's wave,^° 

Should glitter o'er a dreary grave: 

A dark abyss — a sunless day. 

An endless night without one ray. 

'Twas at that calm, that silent hour, 
When the tall poppy sheds its shower. 
When all on earth, and all on high 
Seemed breathing slumber's sweetest sigh; 
At that calm hour, when Peris love 
To gaze upon the Heaven above. 
Whose portals bright with many a gem, 
Are closed — for ever closed on them; 



104 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

'Tvvas at this silent, solemn hour, 
That, gliding from his summer-bovver, 
The Subahdar with noiseless step, 
Rush'd like the night-breeze o'er the deep. 

Where flies the haughty Subahdar? 
Onward he flies — to where afar 
Proud Hirney Purvit rears his head^^ 
High above Cashmere's blooming bed. 
And twines his turban's fleecy fold 
With many a brilliant ray gold. 

There, 'neath a plantain's sacred shade. 
Which deep, and dark, and widely spread, 
Al Shinar's high prophetic form 
Held secret counsel with the storm; 
His hand had grasped, with fearless might, 
The mantle of descending night; 
Such matchless skill the prophet knew, 
Such wondrous feats his hand could do, 
That Persia's realm astonished saw. 
And Cashmere's valley gazed with awe! 

Low bow'd the lofty Amir Khan, 

Before the high and mighty man, 

And bending o'er the Naptha stream, 

Which onward rolled its fiery gleam. 

The Subahdar in murmurs told 

Of beauteous form, of bosom cold. 

Of rayless eye, of changeless cheek. 

Of tongue which could or would not speak. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 105 

At length the mourner's tale had ceased, 

He crossed his arms upon his breast, 

He spoke no word — he breath'd no sigh, 

But keenly fixed his piercing eye 

Upon Al Shinar's gloomy brow, 

In all the deep despair of wo. 

The prophet paused; — his eye he raised. 

And stern and earnestly he gazed, 

As if to pierce the sable veil 

Which would conceal the mournful tale; — 

When, starting, with a sudden blow. 

He op'd a portal dark and low. 

Which shrouded from each mortal eye 

Al Shinar's cavern broad and high; 

'Twas bright, 'twas exquisitely bright, 

For founts of rich and living light 

There poured their burning treasures forth, 

Which sought again the parent earth. 

Rich vases, with sweet incense streaming, 
Mirrors a flood of brilliance beaming. 
Fountain, and bath, and curling stream, 
At every turn before them beam; 
And marble pillars, pure and cold, 
And gUttering roof, inlaid with gold. 
And gems, and diamonds met his view. 
In wild and rich profusion too; 
And had Amreta's smiles been given. 
This place had been the Moslem heaven! 

The prophet paused; while Amir Khan 
Gazed, awe-struck, at the wondrous man; 



106 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSOK 

Al Shinar pluck'd a pale blue flower, 
Which bent beneath the fountain's shower^ 
Then slowly turn'd towards Amir Khan 
And placed the treasure in his hand. 

"Mark me!'' he cried: — " this pensive flowefj 

Gathered at midnight's magic hour. 

Will charm each passion of the breast. 

And calm each throbbing nerve to rest; 

^Twill leave thy bounding bosom warm^ 

But set death's seal upon thy form; 

^Twill leave thee stiff, and cold, and pale, 

A slumberer 'neath an icy veil, 

But still shall Reason's conscious reign, 

Unbroken, undisturbed remain. 

And thou shalt hear, and feel, and know 

Each sigh, each touch, each throb of wo!'^ 

Go, thou ! and if Amreta be 
Worthy of love, and worthy thee, 
When she beholds thee pale and cold, 
Wrapp'd in the damp sepulchral fold; — 
When her eye wanders for that glow 
Once burning on thy marble brow; 
Then, if her bosom's icy frame 
Hath ever warmed 'neath passion's flame^ 
^Twill heave tumultuous as it glows 
Like Baikal's everlasting throes; 
And if to-morrow eve you press 
This pale, cold flow'ret to your breast, 
Ere morning smiles, its spell will prove 
If that cold heart be worth thy love I 



POETICAL REMAINS. 107 



PART 11. 

There's silence in the princely halls, 
And brightly blaze the lighted walls, 
While clouds of musk and incense rise 
From vases of a thousand dyes, 
And roll their perfumed treasures wide, 
In one luxuriant fragrant tide; 
And glittering chandeliers of gold. 
Reflecting fire from every fold. 
Hung o'er the shrouded body there. 
Of Cashmere's once proud Subahdar! 

The crystal's and the diamond's rays 
Kindled a wide and brilliant blaze; 
The ruby's blush — the coral's too. 
By Peris dipp'd in Henna's dew, — 
The topaz's rich and golden ray. 
The opal's flame, — the agate gray. 
The amethyst of violet hue. 
The sapphire with its heavenly blue, 
The snow-white jasper sparkling there 
Near the carbuncle's deepening glare; 
The warm carnelian's blushing glow, 
Reflected back the brilliant flow 



108 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Of light, which in refulgent streams, 
O'er hall, o'er bower, and fountain beams. 

O'er beds of roses, bright with dew, 

Unfolding modestly to view, 

Each trembling leaf, each blushing breast. 

In Cashmere's wildest sweetness dressed; 

Through vistas long, — through myrtle-bowerSj 

Where Amir Khan once passed his hours 

In gazing on Amreta's face, 

So full of beauty and of grace. 

Through veils of silver, bright and clear, 

It pour'd its soften'd radiance far; 

Or beam'd in pure and milky brightness. 

O'er urns of alabaster whiteness; 

Through Persian screens of glittering go\d^ 

O'er many an altar's sacred fold. 

Where to eternity will blaze 

The Naptha's never-fading rays. 

The Gheber's fire, which dieth never, 

But burns, and beams, and glows for ever I 

^Twas silent — not a voice was heard — 
No sigh, no murmur, not one word, 
Was echoed through that brilliant hall, 
The spell of silence hung o^'er all; 
For there had paus'd the wing of deatb^ 
The midnight Spirit's withering breath. 

'Twas midnight! — and no murmur rose 
To break the charm of deep repose ^ 



POETICAL REMAINS. 109 

The lake was glittering, and the breeze 
Sighed softly through the tzinnar-trees, 
And kiss'd the Wuller's wave of blue, 
Or sipped the gull's bright trembling dew; 
But not a murnnur, not a sigh 
Was wafted by the night-breeze by, 
Through that wide hall and princely bower, 
At midnight's calm and silent hour! 

0! where was love his night-watch keeping? 
Or was the truant sweetly sleeping? 
Where was he at that hour of rest, 
By him created, claimed and bless'd? 
Where were the tears of love and sorrow, 
The sigh which sympathy can borrow? 
Where were regret, and sad despair? 
Where was Amreta? — where, where? 

Hark! 'tis the night-breeze, softly playing. 

Through veils of glittering silver straying — 

No! 'tis a step — so quick, so light. 

That the gentle flower, which weeps at night. 

Would raise again its drooping head, 

To greet the footstep which had fled. 

'Tis not the breeze which floats around, 
Lifting the light veil from the ground, 
No ! 'tis a form of heavenly mien 
Hath dared to draw the curtain's screen. 

Dimly behind the fluttering veil, 
Which trembles in the breathing gale. 



110 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

That form appears of seraph mould 
Beneath a light cloud's fleecy fold. 
The veil is drawn with hasty hand, 
Loosed is the rich embroider'd band — 
'Tis solemn solitude around, 
There's not a murmur, not a sound- 
Again a snowy hand is seen, 
Again is raised the silken screen. 
And lo ! with light and noiseless tread, 
Amreta glides towards the dead ! 

Her veil was fluttering in the air. 

Her brow, as Parian marble fair. 

Was glittering bright with many a gem. 

Set in a brilliant diadem; 

Her long dark hair was floating far. 

Braided with many a diamond star; 

Her eye was raised, and 0, that eye 

Seemed only formed to gaze on high! 

For 0, more piercing bright its beam 

Than diamonds 'neath Golconda's stream; 

That angel-eye was only given 

To look upon its native heaven! 

The glow upon her cheek was bright, 

But it came, and it fled like a meteor's light; 

A brilliant tear was still lingering there. 

And 0, it was shed for the Subahdar! 

And, Amir Khan, thy heart has bled 
O'er every tear Amreta shed; 
But ah ! Amreta weeps for thee, 
0! what is now thy ecstasy! 



POETICAL REMAINS. HI 

For Amir Khan, Amreta weeps, 
Yet Amir Khan unheeding sleeps! 
Like crystal dew-drops purely glowing, 
O'er his pale brow her tears are flowing; 
She wipes them with her veil away. 
Less sacred far — less sweet than they ! 

Where was that eye which once had gazed 

On her, for whom alone ^twas raised? 

Where was that glance of love and wo? 

Where was that bosom's throbbing glow? 

All, all was cold, and silent there, 

And all was death, and dark despair! 

She hid her face, now cold and pale. 

Within her sweetly-scented veil; 

Then seized her lute, and a strain so clear, 

So mournful arose upon the air, 

That oh! it was sweet as the music of heaven, 

O'er a lost one returning, a sinner forgiven! 

Such notes as repentance in sorrow might sing. 

Notes wafted to heaven by Israfil's wing: — 

SONG. 

Bright Star of the Morning! — this bosom is cold, — 

I was forced from my native shade, 
And I wrapp'd me around with my mantle's fold, 

A sad, mournful Circassian maid ! 

And I then vowed that rapture should never move 
This changeless cheek, this rayless eye. 



112 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

And I then vowed to feel neither bliss nor love, 
But I vowed I would meet thee and die! 

But each burning sigh which thy bosom has breath'd, 
Seem'd melting that dark chain away; 

The dark chain of silence that round me was wreath'd 
On the morn of that fatal day ! 

^Tis done! — and this night I have broken the vow 

Which bound me in silence for ever, 
But thy spirit hath fled from this world of wo, 

To come again never! never! 

My soul, how sad! and my heart how weary! 

For thy bosom is cold to me; 
Without thy fond smile the wide world is dreary, 

Then I will fly quickly with thee! 

Together we'll float down eternity's stream. 
Twin stars on the breast of the billow, 

The brilliance of Paradise round us shall beam. 
And thy bosom shall be my pillow! 

Then open thine arms, bright Star of the Morning! 

My grave in thy bosom shall be! 
The splendours of Heaven already are dawning. 

My Heaven is only with thee! 

Hushed were the words, and hushed the song, 
Which sadly, sweetly, flowed along; 
But Amir Khan's warm heart beat high, 
Though closed and rayless was his eye; 



POETICAL REMAINS. 113 

And every note which struck his ear 
Whispered that hovering angel near; 
And her warna tears which wet his cheek 
Her now revealed love bespeak. 

His bosom bounded to be free, 

And fluttered wild with ecstasy! 

0! would the magic charm had pass'd! 

Would that the morn would break at last! 

But no! it will not, may not be! 

He is not, nor can yet be free ! 

But hark! Amreta's murmurs rise, 
Sweet as the bird's of Paradise; 
She bowed her head, and deeply sighed, 
"Yes, Amir Khan, I am thy bride! 
And here the crimson hand of Death 
Shall wed us with a rosy wreath! 
My blood shall join us as it flows. 
And bind us in a deep repose!" 

Beneath her veil a light is beaming, 
A dagger in her hand is gleaming, 
And livid was the light it threw, 
A pale, cold, death-like stream of blue, 
Around her form of angel brightness, 
And o'er her brow of marble whiteness! 

Awake! Amir Khan, awake! 
Canst thou not rouse thee for her sake? 
8 



114 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Beside thee can Amreta stand, 
The fatal dagger in her hand, 
And canst thou still unconscious lie, 
And see thy loved Amreta die? 
Awake thee! Amir Khan, awake! 
And rouse thee for Amreta's sake! 

Like lightning from a midnight cloud, 
The Subahdar from 'neath his shroud. 
Burst the cold, magic, death-like band. 
And snatched the dagger from her hand! 
The maiden sunk upon his breast. 
And deep and lengthened was her rest! 
There was no sigh, no murmur there. 
And scarcely breathed the Subahdar, 
While almost fearing to be blessed. 
He clasped Amreta to his breast! 

Deep buried in his mantle's fold, 

He felt not that her cheek was cold; 

His own heart throbbed with pleasure's thrill, 

But whispered not that he?'s \v3.s still! — 

Yes! the wild flow of blissful joy. 

Which, bursting, threatened to destroy. 

Gave to her soul a rest from feeling; 

A transient torpor gently stealing 

O'er beating pulse and throbbing breast, 

Had calmed her every nerve to rest. 

But see! the tide of life returns. 

Once more her cheek with rapture burns. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 115 

Once more her dark eye's heavenly beam 
Pours forth its full and piercing gleam; 
Once more her heart is bounding high, 
Too full too weep — too blessed to sigh! 



NOTES TO AMIR KHAN. 



T. 

Beneath calm Cashmere's lovely vale, &c. 

*^ Cashmere J called the happy valley, the garden in perpetual spring, 
and the Paradise of India." 

II. 

The bulbul with his lay of love, &c 
"The Bulbul or Nightingale,'' 

III. 

The gulnare blush'd a deeper hue, &c. 
" Gulnare or Rose." 

The lofty plane-tree's haughty brow, &c. 

"The Plane-tree, that species termed Platanus orientalis, is com- 
monly cultivated in Cashmere, where it is said to arrive at a greater 
perfection than in any other country. This tree, which in most parts 
of Asia is called the Chinur, grows to the size of an oak, and has a 
taper, straight trunk, with a silver-coloured bark, and its leaf^ not 



118 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

unlike an expanded hand, is of a pale green. When in full foliage it 
has a grand and beautiful appearance, and in hot weather affords a 
refreshing: shade." — Foster. 



V. 

And wide the plantain's arms were spread, &c. 

"Plantain-trees are supposed to prevent the plague from visiting 
places, where they are found in abundance." — Middleton's Geography. 

VI. 

Knelt the once haughty Subahdar, &c. 
" Subahdar, or Governor." 

VII. 

Since Amir Khan first blessed the hour, &c. 

To the east of this delightful spot is a fortified palace, erected by 
Amir Khan, a Persian, who was once Governor of Cashmere. He 
used to pass much of his time in this residence, which was curiously 
adapted to every species of Asiatic luxury. — See Encyclopedia, vol. v, 
Part 2. 

VIII. 

Through the long walks of tzinnar trees, &c. 

"Their walks are curiously laid out, and set on both sides with 
tzinnar-trees, a species of poplar unknown in Europe, It grows to 
the height of a pine, and bears a fruit resembling the chestnut, and it 
has broad leaves like those of the vine." — Middleton's Geography. 

IX. 

As it glides o'er the wave of the Wuller's stream, &c. 
A beautiful river passes through Cashmere, called the Ouller, or 



POETICAL REMAINS. 119 

Wuller. There is an outlet, where it runs with greater rapidity and 
force than elsewhere, between two steep mountains, whence proceed- 
ing, after a long course, it joins with the Chelum. 

X. 

And like a Star on Mahmoud's wave, &c. 

"It appears like a lake covered with rocks and mountains. Stones, 
when thrown in, make a surprising noise, and the river itself is deemed 
unfathomable." — Middleion's Geography. 

XL 

Proud Hirney Purvit rears his head, &c. 

There is an oval lake, which joins the Chelum towards the east. — 
The Yucht Suliman and Hirney Purvit form the two sides of what 
may be called a grand portal to the lake. They are hills; one of which 
is sacred to the great Solyraan. 



CHICOMICO. 



This Poem, I have discovered to be founded on the following actual 
occurrences: During the Seminole war, Duncan M. Riminon, (the 
Rathmond of the poem,) a Georgia militiaman, was captured by the 
Indians. Hillis-adjo, their chief, condemned him to death. He was 
bound; but while the instruments of torture were preparing, the ten- 
der-hearted daughter of Hillis-adjo (the Chicomico of the tale) threw 
herself between the prisoner and his executioners, and interceded with 
her father for his release. She was successful. His life was spared. 
In the progress of the war, however, it was the fate of the generous 
Hillis-^adjo (the prophet Francis) himself to be taken a prisoner of war, 
and it was thought necessary to put him to death. These are the facts 
which Miss D. has wrought up, with other characters, (probably ficti- 
tious,) to compose the whole of this poem. The Jirst part of the poem 
is so incomplete, that I have thought it best to introduce the reader 
immediately to the second part. The war had broken out. Chico- 
mico had solicited the presence of Ompahaw, a venerable chief, to aid 
her father Hillis-adjo against the whites, with Rathmond at their head. 
The battle is described, the Indians are victorious, and Rathmond is 
taken prisoner. Here the second part commences. 

Editor, 



C H I C O M I C O 

(Written in her fourteenth year.) 



PART II. 

What sight of horror, fear and wo, 
Now greets chief Hillis-ha-ad-joe? 
What thought of blood now hghts his eye? 
What victim foe is doomed to die? 
For his cheek is flushed and his air is wild, 
And he cares not to look on his only child. 
His lip quivers with rage, his eye flashes fire. 
And his bosom beats high with a tempest of ire. 
Alas! 'tis Rathmond stands a prisoner now, 
Awaiting death from Hillis-ha-ad-joe, 
From Hillis-ha-ad-joe, the stern, the dread. 
To whose vindictive, cruel, savage mind, 
Loss after loss fast following from behind. 
Had only added thirst insatiate for blood; 
And now he swore by all his heart held dear. 
That limb from limb his victims he would tear. 

But ah! young Rathmond's case what tongue can tell? 
Upon his hapless fate what heart can dwell? 



1,26 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

To die when manhood dawns in rosy hght, 

To be cut off in all the bloom of life, 
To view the cup imtasted snatched from sight, 

Is sure a thought with horror doubly rife. 
Alas, poor youth! how sad, how faint thy heart! 

When memory paints the forms endeared by love; 
From these so soon, so horribly to part; 

Oh! it would almost savage bosoms move! 
But unextinguished Hope still lit his breast, 
And aimless still, drew scenes of future rest! 
Caught at each distant light which dimly gleamed, 
Though sinking 'mid th' abyss o'er which it beamed! 
Like the poor mariner, who, tossed around, 
Strains his dim eye to ocean's farthest boimd, 
Paints, in each snowy wave, assistance near, 
And as it rolls away, gives up to fear: 
Dreads to look round, for death's on every side, 
The low'ring clouds above the ocean wide: 
He wails alone — "and scarce forbears to weep,"* 
That his wreck'd bark still lingers on the deep ! 

E'en to the child of penury and wo. 

Who knows no friend that o'er his grave will weep, 
Whose tears in childhood's hour were taught to flow. 

Looks with dismay across death's horrid deep! 
Then, when suspended o'er that awful brink. 

Snatched from each joy, which opening life may give. 
Who would not from the prospect shuddering shrink. 

And murmur out one hope-fraught prayer "to live!" 

* Campbell. 



POETICAL RExMAINS. 127 

But, see! the captive is now dragged along, 

While round him mingle yell and wild war-song! 

The ring is formed around the high raised pile, 

Fagot o'er fagots reared with savage toil; 

Th' impatient warriors watch with burning brands, 

To toss the death-signs from their ruthless hands! 

Nearer, and nearer still the wretch is drawn. 

All hope of life, of rescue, now is gone! 

A horrid death is placed before his eyes; 

In fancy noiv he sees the flames arise. 

He hears the deaf'ning yell which drowns the cry 

Of the poor victim's last, dire agony! 

His heart was sick, he strove in vain to pray 

To that great God, before whose awful bar 
His lighten'd soul was soon to wing its way 

From this sad world to other realms afar! 

He raised his eyes to Heaven's blue arch above, 
That pure retreat of mercy and of love; 
When, lo! two fellow-sufferers caught his eye, 
The prophet Montonoc is doomed to die! 
His haughty spirit now must be brought low, 
Long had he been the chieftain's direst foe: 
The Indian's face was wrapped in mystic gloom, 
As on they led him to his horrid doom. 
A hectic flush upon his dark cheek burned, 
His eye nor to the right nor left hand turned: 
His lip nor quivered, nor turned pale with fear, 
Though the death-note already met his ear. 
Tall and majestic was his noble mien, 
Erect, he seemed to brave the foeman's ire, 



128 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

His step was bold, ?iis features all serene 
As he approached the steep funereal pyre! 

Close at his side, a figure glided slow, 

Clad in the dark habiliments of wo, 

Whose form was shrouded in a mantle's fold. 

All, save one treacherous ringlet, — bright as gold. 

The death-song's louder note shrill peals on high, 

A signal that the victim soon must die ! 

While yell and war-note join the chorus still, 

Till the wild dirge rebounds from hill to hill! 

Rathmond now turned to snatch a last sad gaze, 

Ere closed life's curtain o'er his youthful days; 

When he beheld the dark, the piercing eye 

Of Montonoc, the prophet doomed to die. 

Bent upon him with such a steady gaze, 

That not more fixed was death's own horrid glaze! 

Then lifting his long swarthy finger high, 

To where the sun's bright beams just tinged the sky, 

And o'er the parting day its glories spread. 

Which was to close when their sad souls had fled, — 

"White man," he cried, in low mysterious tone, 

Caught but by Rathmond's listening ear alone, 

" Ere the bright eye of yon red orb shall sleep, 

This haughty chief his fallen tribe shall weep!" 

He said no more, for lo! the death-yells cease. 

'Tis hushed! no sound is echoed through the place! 

The opening ring disclosed a female there, 

In a rich mantle shrouded, save her hair, 



POETICAL REMAINS. 129 

Which long and dark, luxuriant round her hung, 
With many a clear, white pearl and dew-drop strung! 

She threw back the mantle which shaded her face, 
She spoke not, but looked the pale spirit of wo! 
The angel of mercy! the herald of grace! 

Knelt the sorrowful daughter of Hillis-ad-joe! 
" My father! my father!" the maiden exclaims, 
"Oh doom not the white man to die midst the flamesi 
'Tis thy daughter who kneels! 'tis Chicomico sues! 
Can my father, the friend of my childhood, refuse? — 
This heart is the white man's! with him will I die! 
With him, to the Great Spirit's mansion I'll fly! 
The flames which to heaven will waft his pure soul 
Round the form of thy daughter encircling shall roll! 
My life is his life — his fate shall be mine; 
For his image around thy child^s heart will entwine?" 

Man's breast may be cruel, and savage, and stern; 
From the suff'erings of others it heedless may turn; 
To the pleadings of want, to the wan face of wo. 
To the sorrow-wrung drops which around it may flow. 
But 'twill melt like the snow on the Appenine's breast. 
As the sunbeam falls light, on its fancy-crowned crest. 
When the voice of a child to its cold ear is given. 
Filled with sorrow's sad notes like the music of Heaven. 

" Loose the white man," the king in an agony cried, 
"My child what you plead for, can ne'er be denied! 
The pris'ner is yours! to enslave or to free! 
I yield him, Chicomico, wholly to thee; 
9 



130 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

But remember!" he cried, while pride conquered his 

wo, 
"Remember, thy father is Hillis-ad-joe!" 
He frowned, and his brow, Uke the curtains of night, 
Looked darker, when tinged by a moon-beam of hght; 
Chicomico saw — she saw, and with dread, 
The storm, which returning, might burst o'er her head; 
And quickly to Rathmond she turned with a sigh, 
While a love-brightened tear veiled her heavenly eye. 

" Go, white man, go! without a fear; 

Remember you to one are dear; 

Go! and may peace your steps attend; 

Chicomico will be your friend. 

To-morrow eve, with us may close 

Joyful, and free from cares or woes; 

To-morrow eve may also end. 

And find me here without a friend! 

Remember then the Indian maid, 

Whose voice the burning brand hath stayed! 

But should I be, as now I am, 

And thou in prison and in wo. 
Think that this heart is still the same, 

And turn thee to Chicomico! 
Then, go! yes go! while yet you may. 
Dread death awaits you, if you stay! 
May the Great Spirit guard and guide 
Your footsteps through the forest wide!" 

She said, and wrapped the mantle near 
Her fragile form, with hasty hand. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 131 

Just bowed her head, and shed one tear, 
Then sped him to his native land. 

The wind is swift, and mountain hart. 

From huntsman's bow, the feathered dart; 

But swifter far the pris'ner's flight. 

When freed from dungeon-chains and night! 

So Rathmond felt, but wished to show 

How much he owed Chicomico; 

But she had fled; she did not hear! 

She did not mark the grateful tear, 

Which quivered in the hero's eye; 

Nor did she catch the half-breathed sigh; 

And Heaven alone could hear the prayer, 

Which Rathmond's full heart proffered there. 



132 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



PART TIL 

While swift on his way young Rathmond sped, 
Death's horrors awaited those he fled. 
Already were the prisoners bound, 

One word, and every torch would fly; 
No step was heard nor feeblest sound, 

Save the death-raven's wing on high! 
The sign was given, each blazing brand 
Like hghtning, shot from every hand; 
The crackling, sparkling fagots blazed, — 
Then Montonoc his dark eye raised; 
He whistled shrill— an answering call 
Told that each foeman then should fall! 
Sudden a band of warriors flew 
From earth, as if from earth they grew. 
The brake, the fern, and hazel-down. 
Blazed brightly in the sinking sun; 
Confusion, blood, and carnage then 
Spread their broad pinions o'er the glen; 
The blazing brands were quenched in blood, 
And Montonoc unshackled stood ! 
He paused one moment — dark he frowned. 
By dire revenge and slaughter crowned; 



POETICAL REMAINS. 133 

Then bent his bow, let loose the dart, 
And pierced the foeman Chieftain's heart. 
Yes, Montonoc, thy arrow sped, 
For Hillis-ha-ad-joe is dead! 

And now within their hidden tent, 
The conquered make their sad lament; 
Before them lay their slanghtered king. 
While slowly round they form the ring; 
Dread e'en in death, the Chieftain's form 
Seemed made to stride the whirlwind storm; 
Upon his brow a dreadful frown 
Still lingered as the warrior's crown; 
And yet it seemed as mortal ire 
Still sparkled in that eye of fire, 
And blazing, soon should light the face 
O'er which death's shadow held its place, 
And like the lightning 'neath a cloud. 
Shoot, flaming from its sable shroud. 
But, hark! low notes of sorrow break 
The solemn calm, and o'er the lake, 
Float on the bosom of the gale; 
Hark! 'tis the Chieftain's funeral wail! 

Fallen, fallen, fallen low 

Lies great Hillis-ha-ad-joe! 

To the land of the dead. 

By the white man sped! 
In his hunting garb they shall welcome him there, 
To the land of the bow, and the an tiered deer! 



134 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Fallen is Hillis-ha-ad-joe! 

Chaunt his death-dirge sad and slow; 

In the battle he fell, in the fight he died, 

And many a brave warrior sunk by his side. 
In his hunting garb they shall welcome him there, 
To the land of the bow, and the antlered deer. 

The sun is sinking in the deep. 

Our " mighty fallen one" we weep; 

Fallen is Hillis-ha-ad-joe! 

The axe has laid our broad oak low! 
In his hunting garb they shall welcome him there, 
To the land of the bow, and the antlered deer. 

The last sad note had sunk on the breeze, 

Which mournfully sighed among the dark trees. 

When a form thickly shrouded, swift glided along, 

But joined not her voice to the funeral song. 

When the notes ceased, she knelt, and in accents of wo, 

Besought the Great Spirit for Hillis-ad-joe. 

Her words were but few, and her manner was wild. 

For she was the slaughtered Chief's poor orphan 

child! 
She raised her dark eye to the sun sinking red. 
She looked, and that glance told that reason had fled ! 

Why does thy eye roll wild, Chicomico? 
Why dost thou shake like aspen's quivering bough? 
Why o'er that fine brow streams thy raven hair? 
Read! for the " wreck of reason's written there!" 



POETICAL REMAINS. 135 

Tis true! the storm was high, the surges wild, 
And reason fled the Chieftain's orphan child! 
Thou poor heart-broken wretch on life's wild sea, 
Say! who is left to love, to comfort thee? 
All, all are gone, and thou art left alone. 
Like the last rose, by autumn rudely blown. 

But she has fled, the wild and winged wind 
Is by her left, long loitering far behind! 
But whither has she fled? to wild-wood glen, 
Far from the cares, the joys, the haunts of men! 
Her bed the rock, her drink the ripp'ling stream, 
And murdered friends her ever constant dream! 
Her wild death-song is wafted on the gale, 
Which echoes round the Chieftain's funeral wail! 
Her little skiff she paddles o'er the lake. 
And bids "the Daughter of the Voice," awake! 
From hill to hill the shrieking echoes run, 
To greet the rising and the setting sun. 



136 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



PAR r IV. 

The lake is calm, the sun is low, 

The whippoorwill is chaunting slow, 

And scarce a leaf through the forest is seen 

To wave in the breeze its rich mantle of green. 

Fit emblem of a guiltless mind, 

The glassy waters calmly lie; 
Unruffled by a breath of wind. 

Which o'er its shining breast may sigh! 
The shadow of the forest there ■ 

Upon its bosom soft may rest; 
The eagle-heights, which tower in air, 

May cast their dark shades o'er its breast. 

But hark! approaching paddles break 
The stillness of that azure lake! 
Swift o'er its surface glides the bark, 
Like Hghtning's flash, hke meteor spark. 
It seem'd, as on the light skiff flew. 
As it scarce kissed the wave's deep blue, 
Which, dimpling round the vessel's side, 
Sparkled and whirled in eddies wide! 

Who guides it through the yielding lake? 
Who dares its magic calm to break? 



POETICAL REMAINS. 137 

'Tis Montonoc! his piercing eye 

Is raised to where the western hill 
Rears its broad forehead to the sky, 

BattHng the whirlwind's fury still. 

'Twas Montonoc, and with him there 
Was that strange form, with golden hair! 
Wrapped in the self-same- garb, as when 
Surrounded by those savage men. 
The stranger had, with Montonoc, 
Been led before the blazing stake! 
Swift, swift, the light skiff forward flew, 
Till it had crossed the waters blue; 
Both leaped like lightning to the land, 
And left the skiff upon the strand; 
Far mid the forest then they fled, 
And mingled with its dark brown shade. 

The oak's broad arms in the breeze were creaking, 
The bird of the gloomy brow was shrieking, 
When a note on the night-wind was wafted along, 
A note of the dead Chieftain's funeral song. 
A form was seen wandering in frantic wo, 
'Twas the maniac daughter of Hillis-ad-joe! 
Her dark hair was borne on the night-wind afar, 
And she sung the wild dirge of the Blood-hound of 
War! 

She ceased when she came near the breeze-rufiled 

lake ; 
She ceased — was't the wind sighing o'er the long 

brake? 



138 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Was't the soft rippling wave? — was't the murmur of 

trees? 
Which bending, were brushed by the wing of the 

breeze? 
Ah, no! for she shrieked, as her piercing eye caught 
A form, which her frenzied brain never forgot! — 
^Twas Rathmond! yes, Rathmond before her now 

stood, 
And he glanced his full eye on the child of the wood. 

" Chicomico!" he cried, his voice sad and low, 

"Chicomico! we are the children of wo! 

Oh, come, then! oh, come! and thy Rathmond's strong 

arm 
Shall shelter thee ever from danger and harm; 
^Tis true, I have loved with the passion of youth! 
I have loved; and let Heaven attest with what truth! 
But, Cordelia, thy ashes are mixed with the dead — " 
(Here his eye flashed more fierce, and his pale cheek 

turned red) 
" 'Twas thy father, Chicomico — yes, 'twas thy sire. 
Who kindled the loved saint's funereal pyre! 
But, 'tis passed" — (and he crossed his cold, quivering 

hand 
O'er a brow that was burning like Zahara's sand,) 
"'Tis pass'd! — and Chicomico, thou didst preserve 
The life of a wretch, who now never can love! 
That life is thy own, with a heart, that though chilled 
To passion's soft throb, is with gratitude filled! 



POETICAL REMAINS. I39 

She turned her dark eye, from which reason's bright 

fire 
Had fled, with the ghosts of her friends — of her sire; 
"Young Eagle!" she cried, "when my father was 

slain, 
What white man, who ravaged along that dread plain. 
Withheld the dire blow, and plead for the life 
Of Hillis-ad-joe? — and say, who in that strife, 
Stayed the arm that bereft me, and left me alone? 
Yes, Young Eagle! my father, my brothers are gone! 
Wouldst thou ask me to linger behind them, while they 
To yon Heaven in the west are wending their way! 
And, hark! the Great Spirit, whose voice sounds on 

high. 
Bids me come! and see, white man, how gladly I fly!" 
More swift than the deer, when the hounds are in 

view. 
To the bark, that was stranded, Chicomico flew! 
She dashed the light oar in the waves' foaming spray, 
And thus wildly she sung, as she darted away: 

" I go to the land in the west. 

The Great Spirit calls me away! 
To the land of the just and the blest, 

The Great Spirit points me the way ! 

" Like snow on the mountain's crest. 

Like foam on the fountain's breast, 
Hillis-ad-joe, and his kinsmen have passed! 

Like the sun's setting ray in the west, 
When it sinks on the wave to rest, 
The dead Chieftain's daughter is coming at last! 



140 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

" Too long has she lingered behind, 

Awaiting the Great Spirit's voice! 
But hark! it calls loud in the wind, 

And Chicomico now will rejoice! 

" I go to the land in the west: 

The Great Spirit calls me away! 
To the land of the just and the blest 

The Great Spirit points me the way!'^ 

The wild notes sunk upon the gale, 

And echo caught them not again! 
For the breeze which bore the maiden's wail; 

Wafted afar the last sad strain! 

'Twas said, that shrieking 'mid the storm, 

The maiden oft was seen to glide. 
And oft the hunters mark'd her form. 

As swift she darted through the tide. 

And once along the calm lake shore, 
Her light canoe she was seen to guide, 

But the maid and her bark are seen no more 
To float along the rippling tide. 

For the billows foamed, and the winds did roar, 
And her lamp, as it glimmered amid the storm 

A moment blazed bright, and was seen no more. 
For it sunk 'mid the waves with her maniac form! 



POETICAL REMAINS. 141 



THE FAREWELL 



Adieu, Chicomico, adieu; 

Soft may'st thou sleep amid the wave, 
And ^neath thy canopy of blue 

May sea-maids deck thy coral grave. 

'Twas but a feeble voice which sung 
Thy hapless tale of youthful wo; 

But ah! that weak, that infant tongue 
Will ne^er another story know. 

And tho' the rough and foaming surge, 
And the wild whirlwind whistling o'er. 

Should rudely chaunt thy funeral dirge. 
And send the notes from shore to shore; 

Still shall one voice be heard, above 
The dreadful " music of the spheres!" 

The voice of one whose song is love, 
Embalm'd by sorrow's saddest tears. 



142 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



PART V. 

The fourth day found the dark tribe brooding o^er 

Their Chieftain's body. Chieftain now no more! 

As fire half-quench'd, some faint spark lives, 

Glimmers, half dies, and then revives, 

Revives to kindle far and wide, 

And spread with devastating stride; 

So glimmered, so revived, so spread 

The mourners' rage around the dead! 

Their quivers o'er their shoulders flung, 

Up rose the aged and the young; 

And swore, as tenants of the wood, 

By all their hearts held dear or good. 

That, ere another sun should rise, 

Their slaughtered foes should glut their eyes. 

They swore revenge and bloodshed too. 

As their slain Chieftain's rightful due, 

They swore that blood should freely flow 

For their poor, lost Chicomico! 

'Twas evening: all was fair and still; 
The orb of night now sparkling on the rill; - 
Now glittering o'er the fern, and water-brake. 
Cast its broad eye-beam o'er the lake! 



POETICAL REMAINS. I43 

Far through the forest, where no footpath lay, 

Old Montonoc pursued his onward way; 

The fair-haired stranger hung upon his arm, 

Shook at each noise, and trembled with alarm; 

" Well do I know the woodland way, 

For I have tracked it many a day, 

When mountain bear or wilder deer 

Have called me to this forest drear. 

Fear'st thou with Montonoc to stray, 

Why wand'rest thou so far away. 

From friends, from safety, and from home. 

To war, and weariness, and gloom? 

Thou must not hope, as yet, to bear 

Free from disguise that form so dear; 

It must not, and it will not be. 

Till, buried in the dark Monee, 

The last of yonder tribe of blood. 

Lies weltering in the sable flood! 

But rest thee on this fresh green seat. 

And I will trace his wandering feet; 

Warn him to watch the lurking foe. 

Whose bloody breasts for vengeance glow; 

Then rest thee here; within yon dell 

I saw his form, and knew him well!'^ 

Thus spoke the prophet of the wood. 
As near the stranger maid he stood. 

" Then go," she cried, half-faltering, "go! 
Bid him beware the bloody foe ! 



144 LUGRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

But give me, ere we part," she cried, 

" Yon blood-stained death-blade from your side; 

Perhaps this arm, though weak, may find 

Strength, in the hour of deep distress; 
Go! my preserver, and my friend. 

May Heaven thy steps and efforts bless!" 

Cautious and swift the Indian went; 
His head was raised, his bow was bent. 
And as he on, like wild-deer, sped. 
So light, so silent, was his tread, 
That scarce a leaf was heard to move. 
Of flower below, or branch above! 

Where Rathmond, with a heart of wo. 

Had gazed on lost Chicomico, 

There, on that spot, the prophet's eye 

Mark'd the young warrior's farewell sigh. 

"Why lingerest thou here. Young Eagle," he cried, 

" The foe 'neath the fern, and the dark hazel hide ! 

Blood, blood! be our war-cry, for vengeance is theirs! 

Their arrows are winged by despair and by fears! 

When the last of the tribe of Hillis-ad-joe, 

Hath plunged him beneath the deep waters below, 

Thy heart shall possess all it wishes for here, 

Unchilled by a sigh, unbedewed by a tear! 

But till then, cold and vacant thy bosom shall be. 

And the idol to which thou hast bended thy knee. 

Shall mark thee, and love thee, in peril and wo. 

Yet till then that dear being thou never shalt know!" 



POETICAL REMAINS. I45 

" What meanest thou, prophet of the eagle-eye, 
By thy mysterious prophecy? 
Well knowest thou that yon bloody chief 
Doomed her to death, and me to grief! 
That round that form, the wild flames rolled, 
And wafted far her angel soul ! 
Why didst thou not arrest the brand? 
For, prophet, fate was in thy hand.' 



yy 



"'Tis well," the Indian calmly said, 
" 'Tis well," and bowed to earth his head; 
" But," he exclaimed, with eye less grave, 
" I left a skiff on yonder wave — 
Say, dark-eyed Eagle, dost thou know 
Aught of the dire, blood-thirsty foe?" 

" No, Montonoc! no foe was she, 
Who plunged adown the swift Monee. 
Chicomico is cold and damp ! 
The wave her couch — the moon her lamp; 
But mark! adown the foaming stream 
The barks beneath the moon's pale beam! 
What bode they? or of weal, or wo? 
Do they betoken friend or foe? 
Perchance to rouse the wildwood deer 
The Indian hunters landed there." 

Back they retraced their steps, till from the hill 
A female shriek rang loud, distinct, and shrill ! 
Both start, both stop, and Montonoc's dark eye 
Flashed like a meteor of the northern sky. — 
10 



146 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

But hark! what cry of savage joy is there, 
Borne through the forest on the midnight air? 

It is the foe!— the band of blood-hounds came, 

Who erst had Ut the Chieftain's funeral flame! 

Revenge and death around their arrows gleam, 

And murder shudders ^neath the moon's pale beam! 

The fiercest warrior of their tribe, their chief, 

Sage in the council, bloody in the strife. 

High towered dark Wompaw's snowy plume in air, 

Waved on the breeze, and shone a beacon there! 

Old Ompahaw, with brow of fire, 

And bosom burning high with ire. 

And sparkling eye, and burning brand. 

Which gleamed athwart both lake and strand. 

Still echoed back the lengthened yell 

Which startled wildwood, rock, and dell! 

And more were there, so sad, so wild. 

Nature might shudder at her child. 

And curse the hand that e'er had made 

So dark a stain, so deep a shade ! 

On, on they flew, with lengthened stride. 

But, ah! the victims, where are they? — 
Naught but the lake lies open wide. 

And the broad bosom of the bay! 
But, ah! 'tis well:— that shrill shriek toll'd 

The death-knell of their chief once more! 
Yes, Rathmond, yes, the deed was bold. 

That stretched yon white plume on the shore! 



POETICAL REMAINS. I47 

Safe crouched' neath fern-bush, dark, and low, 

Rathmond had truly bent his bow, 

And Montonoc, with steady eye, 

From 'mid the oak's arms broad and high, 

Took aim as sure; his arrows sped, 

And many a bloody foe is dead! 

Wide tumult spreads! — afar they fly. 

Each rustling brake, which meets the eye. 

Seems shrouding still some warrior there. 

With bloody brand and eye of fire. 

Slow dropping from his safe retreat. 

The prophet glides to Rathmond's seat; 

Then raised loud yells of various tone. 

Such as are given at victory won. 

And Rathmond joined, till long and high. 

Rang the loud chorus to the sky! 

Hark! o'er the rocks, the shrieks are answered wild. 

Can it be Echo, Nature's darling child? 

No — 'tis a whoop of horror and despair. 

Which knows no sympathy, which sheds no tear! 

Lo! on yon cliff, which frowns above the wave, 
Mark the stern warriors hovering o'er their grave! 
'Tis done: the sullen bosom of the bay 
Opens and closes o'er its sinking prey! 

One hollow splashing, as the waters part, 

Sad welcome of the victim to his bed. 
One mournful, shuddering echo, and the heart 

Turns, chilled, at length, from scenes of death and 
dread! 



148 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

But ah! like some sad spectre lingering near, 
A form still hovers o'er the scene of wo; — 

Does it await its hour of vengeance here, 
Watching the cold forms weltering below? 

The morn was dawning slowly in the east, 

A few faint gleams of light were bursting through. 

When the dread warriors sought the lake's calm breast. 
And sullen sunk amid its waters blue! 

That rude, wild phantom hovering there, 
Poised on the precipice mid-way in air. 
Like some stern spirit of the dead. 
Rising indignant from its bed. 
Was Ompahaw! alone, he stood. 
Gazing on Heaven, on hill, and wood! 
His eye was wilder than the eagle's glare; 
Its glance was triumph mingled with despair! 
Far floated on the breeze his plumes of red, 
Waving in warlike pride around his head; 
His bow was aimless, bent within his hand; 
His scalping-knife was gleaming in its band; 
And his gay dress, bedecked for battle's storm. 
Was wildly fluttering round his warrior-form! 

"Farewell!'^ he cried, "this aged hand 
Draws the last bow-string of our band!" 
He spoke, and, sudden as the lightning's glance. 
The dart, one moment, o'er the waters danced; 
Like comet's blaze, like shooting star. 
It danced across the waters far! 



POETICAL REMAINS. I49 

The dark lake sparkled, as the arrow fell, 
Foaming, death's herald, a last, bright farewell! 
Then from his belt his tomahawk he tore, 
" Man shall ne'er stain thy blade again with gore!" 
Then raised on high his arm, and wildly sung 
The death-song of his tribe, till nature rung! 

THE DEATH-SONG. 

" The last of the tribe of Hillis-ad-joe 

Falls not by the hand of the bloody foe! 
But they fled to the Heaven of peace in the west, 
The Great Spirit called, and they flew to be blessed! 

" From the dark rock's frowning brow 

They flew to the deep below; 
They feared not, for the Heaven of peace in the west 
Was smiling them welcome, sweet welcome to rest! 

" The last of the tribe of Hillis-ad-joe 

Now plunges him 'mid the deep waters below! 
I come, Great Spirit, take me to thy rest! 
Lo! my freed soul is winged towards the west!" 

'Tis past! the rude, wild sons of Nature sleep, 
Calm, undisturbed, amid the waters deep ! 
'Tis past! — the deed is done, the tribe has gone! 
Not one is left to mourn it, no, not one ! 

The last of all that tribe of blood 
Lies weltering in. the sable flood ! 



150 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Oh! where is yonder fair-haired maid? 
Say, whither hath the lone one strayed? 
'Mid the wild tumult of the strife, 
Where fled she from the seal ping-knife? 
Angels around her spread their arm, 
And shrouded her from fear and harm! 
But oh! what shriek rang shrill and clear, 
And echoed still in Rathmond's ear? 
Why should he note that voice, that scream? 
Was it his fancy, or a dream? 
Or was it — hope illumed his eye. 
And pointed to the prophecy! 

"But no! — 'twere madness to return 
To those bright scenes of joy," he cried, 

" Her bones are whitening in the sun, 
Her ashes scattered far and wide!" 

But where is Montonoc? alone, 

Rathmond is musing on the strand; 
Say, whither has the prophet gone? 

Why does young Rathmond heedless stand? 

Oh! he is picturing to his vacant breast 
Those scenes of joy, those moments doubly blessed. 
Which youthful hope had promised should be his, 
When all was light, and love, and cloudless bliss! 
Oh! he was sighing o'er the dreary waste. 

Left in that bosom, which had loved so well! 
Oh! he was wishing for some place of rest, 

Some gloomy cavern, or some lonely cell! 



POETICAL REMAINS. 151 

But, ah! the voice of Montonoc is heard, 
Loud as the notes of yonder gloomy bird! 
" Eagle!'^ he cried, " the fatal charm hath passed! 
The blood-red tribe have darkly sunk at last! 
And, warrior, now I yield unto thy power 
The latest trophy of my life's last hour! 
Deal with him as thou wilt, for he is thine! 
But mark! 'twas I who gave, for he was mine!' 
Adieu! I go!" — He clos'd his fiery eye, 
And his stern spirit flew to heaven on high! 

The prisoner sighed, and mutely gazed awhile 

Upon the fallen prophet's brow of toil, 

Then towards the warrior turned, dropped the dark 

hood. 
And, lo! his lost Cordelia before her Rathmond stood! 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES, 



MISCELLANEOUS PIECES. 



C H ARIT Y. 

A VERSIFICATION OP PART OF THE THIRTEENTH 
CHAPTER OF FIRST CORINTHIANS. 

(Written in her twelfth year.) 

Though I were gifted with an angel's tongue, 
And voice like that with which the prophets sungj 
Yet if mild charity were not within, 
'Twere all an impious mockery and sin. 

Though I the gift of prophecy possessed, 
And faith like that which Abraham professed, 
They all were like a tinkling cymbal's sound, 
If meek-eyed charity did not abound. 

Though I to feed the poor my goods bestow, 
And to the iames my body I should throw, 
Yet the vain act would never cover sin. 
If heaven-born charity were not within. 



156 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



TO SCIENCE. 



(Written in her thirteenth year.) 



Let others in false Pleasure's court be found, 
But may I ne'er be whirled the giddy round; 
Let me ascend with Genius' rapid flight, 
Till the fair hill of Science meets my sight. 

Blest with a pilot who my feet will guide. 
Direct my way, whene'er I step aside; 
May one bright ray of Science on me shine. 
And be the gift of learning ever mine. 



PLEASURE. 



(Written in her thirteenth year.) 



Away! unstable, fleeting Pleasure, 
Thou troublesome and gilded treasure; 
When the false jewel changes hue. 
There's naught, man, that's left for you! 
What many grasp at with such joy. 
Is but her shade, a foolish toy; 
She is not found at every court. 
At every ball, and every sport. 
But in that heart she loves to rest, 
That's with a guiltless conscience blest. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 157 



THE GOOD SHEPHERD. 

(Written in her thirteenth year.) 

The Shepherd feeds his fleecy flock with care, 
And mourns to find one little lamb has strayed; 

He, unfatigued, roams through the midnight air. 
O'er hills, o'er rocks, and through the mossy glade. 

But when that lamb is found, what joy is seen 
Depicted on the careful shepherd's face. 

When, sporting o'er the smooth and level green, 
He sees his fav'rite charge is in its place. 

Thus the great Shepherd of his flock doth mourn. 
When from his fold a wayward lamb has strayed, 

And thus with mercy he receives him home. 
When the poor soul his Lord has disobeyed. 

There is great joy among the saints in heaven. 
When one repentant soul has found its God, 

For Christ, his Shepherd, hath his ransom given. 
And sealed it with his own redeeming blood! 



158 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



LINES, 
WRITTEN UNDER THE PROMISE OF REWARD. 

(Written in her thirteenth year.) 

Whene'er the muse pleases to grace my dull page, 
At the sight of reward^ she flies off in a rage; 
Prayers, threats, and entreaties I frequently try, 
But she leaves me to scribble, to fret, and to sigh. 

She torments me each moment, and bids me go write, 
And when I obey her, she laughs at the sight; 
The rhyme will not jingle, the verse has no sense, 
And against all her insults I have no defence. 

I advise all my friends, who wish me to write, 
To keep their rewards and their gifts from my sight; 
So that jealous Miss Muse won't be wounded in pride. 
Nor Pegasus rear, till I've taken my ride. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 159 



TO THE 
MEMORY OF HENRY KIRK WHITE. 

(Written in her thirteenth year.) 

In yon lone valley where the cypress spreads 
Its gloomy, dark, impenetrable shades, 
The mourning Nine, o'er White's untimely grave 
Murmur their sighs, like Neptune's troubled wave. 

There sits Consumption, sickly, pale, and thin, 
Her joy evincing by a ghastly grin; 
There his deserted garlands with'ring lie, 
Like him they droop, like him untimely die. 



STILLING THE WAVES. 

(Written in her thirteenth year.) 

"And he arose and rebuked the wind, and said unto the sea, 
* Peace, be still!' " 

Be still, ye waves, for Christ doth deign to tread 
On the rough bosom of your watery bed! 
Be not too harsh your gracious Lord to greet, 
But, in soft murmurs, kiss his holy feet; 
'Tis He alone can calm your rage at will. 
This is His sacred mandate, "Peace, be still!'' 



160 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



A SONG. 
(in imitation of the scotch.) 

(Written in her thirteenth year.) 

Wha is it that caemeth sae blithe and sae swift, 

His bonnet is far frae his flaxen hair Uft, 

His dark een rolls gladsome, i' the breeze floats his 

plaid. 
And surely he bringeth nae news that is sad. 
Ah! say, bonny stranger, whence caemest thou now? 
The tiny drop trickles frae off" thy dark brow. 

" I come," said the stranger, " to spier my lued hame. 
And to see if my Marion still were the same; 
I hae been to the battle, where thousands hae bled, 
And chieftains fu' proud are wi' mean peasants laid; 
I hae fought for my country, for freedom, and fame. 
And now I'm returning wi' speed to my hame." 

" Gude Spirit of light!" ('twas a voice caught his 
ear) 
" An is it me ain Norman's accents I hear? 
And has the fierce Southron then left me my child! 
Or am I wi' sair, sair anxiety wild? 
He turned to behold — 'tis his mother he sees! 
He flies to embrace her — he falls on his knees. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 161 

" Oh! where is my father?" a tear trickled down, 
And silently moisten'd the warrior's cheek brown: 
" Ah ! sure my heart sinks, sae sair in my breast, 
Too sure he frae all the world's trouble doth rest!" 
" But where is my Marion?" his pale cheek turned 

red, 
And the glistening tear in his eye was soon dried. 

"She lives!" and he knew 'twas his Marion's sweet 
tone, 

" She lives," exclaims Marion, " for Norman alone!" 
He saw her: the rose had fled far from her cheek, 
Her hair was dishevelled which once was so sleek; 
But Norman still lives! his Marion is found; 
By the adamant chains of blithe Hymen they're bound. 



EXIT FROM EGYPTIAN BONDAGE. 

(Written in her thirteenth year.) 

When Israel's sons, from cruel bondage freed. 
Fled to the land by righteous Heaven decreed; 
Insulting Pharaoh quick pursued their train. 
E'en to the borders of the troubled main. 

Affrighted Israel stood alone dismayed, 
The foe behind, the sea before them laid; 
Around, the hosts of bloody Pharaoh fold. 
And wave o'er wave the raging Red-sea rolled. 
II 



162 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

But God, who saves his chosen ones from harm, 
Stretched to their aid his all-protecting arm, 
Andlo! on either side the sea divides, 
And Israel's army in its bosom hides. 

Safe to the shore through watery walls they march, 
And once more hail kind Heaven's aerial arch; 
Far, far behind, the cruel foe is seen. 
And the dark waters roll their march between. 

The God of vengeance stretched his arm again, 
And heaving, back recoiled the foaming main; 
And impious Pharaoh 'neath the raging wave. 
With all his army, finds a watery grave.- 

Rejoice, Israel! God is on your side, 
He is your Champion, and your faithful guide; 
By day, a cloud is to your footsteps given. 
By night, a fiery column towers to heaven. 

Then Israel's children marched by day and night. 
Till Sinai's mountain rose upon their sight: 
There righteous Heaven the flying army staid. 
And Israel's sons the high command obeyed. 

To Sinai's mount the trembling people came, 
'Twas wrapped in threat'ning clouds, in smoke, and 

flame; 
A silent awe pervaded all the van; 
Not e'en a murmur through the army ran. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 153 

High Sinai shook! dread thunders rent the air! 
And horrid hghtnings round its summit glare! 
'Twas God's pavilion, and the black'ning clouds, 
Dark hov'ring o'er, his dazzling glory shrouds. 

To Heaven's dread court the intrepid leader came, 
T' receive its mandate in the people's name; 
Loud trumpets peal — the awful thunders roll, 
Transfixing terrors in each guilty soul. 

But lo ! he comes, arrayed in shining light, 
And round his forehead plays a halo bright: 
Heaven's high commands with trembling were re- 
ceived. 
Heaven's high commands were heard, and were be- 
lieved. 



THE LAST FLOWER OF THE GARDEN. 

(Written in her thirteenth year.) 

The last flower of the garden was blooming alone. 
The last rays of the sun on its blushing leaves shone; 
Still a glittering drop on its bosom reclined. 
And a few half-blown buds 'midst its leaves were en- 
twined. 

Say, lonely one, say, why ling'rest thou here? 
And why on thy bosom rechnes the bright tear? 



164 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

'Tis the tear of a zephyr — for summer 'twas shed, 
And for all thy companions now withered and dead. 

Why ling'rest thou here, when around thee are strown 
The flowers once so lovely, by Autumn blasts blown? 
vSay, why, sweetest flowret, the last of thy race, 
"Why ling'rest thou here the lone garden to grace? 

As I spake, a rough blast, sent by Winter's own hand. 
Whistled by me, and bent its sweet head to the sand; 
I hastened to raise it — the dew-drop had fled. 
And the once lovely flower was withered and dead. 



ODE TO FANCY. 

(Written in her thirteenth year.) 

Fancy, sweet and truant sprite. 
Steals on wings, as feathers light. 
Draws a veil o'er Reason's eye. 
And bids the guardian senses fly. 

Soft she whispers to the mind. 
Come, and trouble leave behind: 
She banishes the fiend Despair, 
And shuts the eyes of waking Care. 

Then, o'er precipices dark, 

Where never reached the wing of lark, 



POETICAL REMAINS. 155 

Fearing no harm, she dauntless flies, 
Where rocks on rocks dread frowning rise. 

When Autumn shakes his hoary head, 
And scatters leaves at every tread; 
Fancy stands with list'ning ear, 
Nor starts, when shrinks affrighted Fear. 

There's music in the rattling leaf, 
But 'tis not for the ear of grief; 
There's music in the wind's hoarse moan, 
But 'tis for Fancy's ear alone. 



THE BLUSH. 

(Written in her thirteenth year.) 

Why that blush on Ella's cheek, 
What doth the flitting wand'rer seek? 
Doth passion's black'ning tempest scowl, 
To agitate my Ella's soul? 

Return, sweet wand'rer, fear no harm; 
The heart which Ella's breast doth warm, 
Is virtue's calm, serene retreat; 
And ne'er with passion's storm did beat. 

Return, and camly rest, till love 
Shall thy sweet efficacy prove; 



166 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Then come, and thy loved place resume, 
And fill that cheek with youthful bloom. 

A blush of nature charms the heart 
More than the brilliant tints of art; 
They please awhile, and please no more — 
We hate the things we loved before. 

But no unfading tints were those, 
Which to my Ella's cheek arose; 
They please the raptured heart, and fly 
Before they pall the gazing eye. 

^Twas not the blush of guilt or shame, 
Which o'er my Ella's features came; 
'Twas she, who fed the poor distressed, 
'Twas she the indigent had blessed; 

For her their prayers to heaven were raised, 
On her the grateful people gazed; 
'Twas then the blush suffused her cheek. 
Which told what words can never speak. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 157 



ON AN ^OLIAN HARP. 

(Written in her fourteenth year.) 

What heavenly music strikes my ravished ear, 
So soft, so melancholy, and so clear? 
And do the tuneful Nine then touch the lyre, 
To fill each bosom with poetic fire? 

Or does some angel strike the sounding strings, 
Catching from echo the wild note he sings? 
But hark! another strain, how sweet, how wild! 
Now rising high, now sinking low and mild. 

And tell me now, ye spirits of the wind, 
Oh, tell me where those artless notes to find! 
So lofty now, so loud, so sweet, so clear, 
That even angels might delighted hear! 

But hark! those notes again majestic rise. 
As though some spirit, banished from the skies. 
Had hither fled to charm ^olus wild. 
And teach him other music sweet and mild. 

Then hither fly, sweet mourner of the air, 
Then hither fly, and to my harp repair; 
At twilight chaunt the melancholy lay. 
And charm the sorrows of thy soul away. 



168 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



THE COQUETTE. 

(Written in her fourteenth year.) 

I hae nae sleep, 1 hae nae rest, 

My Ellen's lost for aye, 
My heart is sair and much distressed, 

I surely soon must die. 

I canna think o' wark at a% 

My eyes still wander far, 
I see her neck like driven snaw, 

I see her flaxen hair. 

Sair, sair, I begged; she would na' hear, 

She proudly turned awa'. 
Unmoved she saw the trickling tear. 

Which, spite o' me, would fa'. 

She acted weel a conqueror's part. 

She triumphed in my wo, 
She gracefu' waved me to depart, 

I tried, but could na' go. 

" Ah why,'^ (distractedly I cried,) 

" Why yield me to despair? 
Bid ling'ring Hope resume her sway, 

To ease my heart sae sair," 



POETICAL REMAINS. 159 

She scornfu' smiled, and bade me go! 

This roused my dormant pride; 
I craved nae boon — I took nae luke, 

" Adieu !" I proudly cried. 

I fled! nor Ellen hae I seen, 

Sin' that too fatal day: 
My " bosom's laird" sits heavy here. 

And Hope's fled far away. 

Care, darkly brooding bodes a storm, 

I'm Sorrow's child indeed; 
She stamps her image on my form, 

I wear the mourning weed! 



ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT, 

(Written in her fourteenth year.) 

Sweet child, and hast thou gone, for ever fled ! 
Low lies thy body in its grassy bed; 
But thy freed soul swift bends its flight through air, 
Thy heavenly Father's gracious love to share. 

And now, methinks, I see thee clothed in white. 
Mingling with saints, like thee, celestial bright. — 
Look down, sweet angel, on thy friends below. 
And mark their trickling tears of silent wo. 



170 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Look down with pity in thy infant eye, 

And view the friends thou left, for friends on high; 

Methinks I see thee leaning from above. 

To whisper, to those friends, of peace and love. 

" Weep not for me, for I am happy still. 
And murmur not at our great Father's will; 
Let not this blow your trust in Jesus shake, 
Our Saviour gave, and it is his to take. 

" Once you looked forward to life's opening day, 
The scene was bright, and pleasant seemed the way; 
Hope drew the picture, Fancy, ever near. 
Coloured it bright — 'tis blotted with a tear. 

" Then let that tear be Resignation's child; 
Yielding to Heaven's high will, be calm, be mild; 
Weep for your child no more, she's happy still, 
And murmur not at your great Father's will" 



POETICAL REMAINS. 171 



REFLECTIONS, 

ON CROSSING LAKE CHAMPLAIN IN THE STEAMBOAT 

PHCENIX. 

(Written in her fourteenth year.) 

Islet* on the lake's calm bosom, 

In thy breast rich treasures lie; 
Heroes! there your bones shall moulder. 

But your fame shall never die. 

Islet on the lake's calm bosom, 

Sleep serenely in thy bed; 
Brightest gem our waves can boast, 

Guardian angel of the dead! 

Calm upon the waves recline, 

Till great Nature's reign is o'er; 
Until old and swift-winged time 

Sinks, and order is no more. 

Then thy guardianship shall cease. 

Then shall rock thy aged bed; 
And when Heaven's last trump shall sound. 

Thou shalt yield thy noble dead! 

* Crab Island; on which were buried the remains of the sailors 
who fell in the action of September llth, 1814. 



172 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



THE STAR OF LIBERTY. 

(Written in her fourteenth year.) 

There shone a gem on England's crown 

Bright as yon star; 
Oppression marked it with a frown, 
He sent his darkest spirit down, 
To quench the Hght that round it shone, 

Blazing afar. 
But Independence met the foe, 
And laid the swift-winged demon low. 

A second messenger was sent. 

Dark as the night; 
On his dire errand swift he went. 
But Valour's bow was truly bent, 
Justice her keenest arrow lent. 

And sped its flight; 
Then fell the impious wretch, and Death 
Approached, to take his withering breath. 

Valour then took, with hasty hand. 

The gem of light; 
He flew to seek some other land, 
He flew to 'scape oppression's hand. 
He knew there was some other strand, 

More bright; 



POETICAL REMAINS. 173 

And as he swept the fields of air, 
He found a country rich and fair. 

Upon its breast the star he placed, 

The star of Uberty; 

Bright, and more bright the meteor blazed, 

The lesser planets stood amazed, 

Astonished mortals, wondering, gazed, 

Looking on fearfully. 

That star shines brightly to this day, 

On thy calm breast, America! 



THE MERMAID. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

Maid of the briny wave and raven lock, 

Whose bed's the sea-weed, and whose throne's the 

rock, 
Tell me, what fate compels thee thus to ride 
O'er the tempestuous ocean's foaming tide? 

Art thou some naiad, who, at Neptune's nod, 
Fhes to obey the mandate of that god? 
Art thou the syren, who, when night draws on, 
Chaunt'st thy wild farewell to the setting sun? 

Or, leaning on thy wave-encircled rock, 
Twining with lily hand thy raven lock; 



174 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Dost thou, in accents wild, proclaim the storm, 
Which soon shall wrap th' unwary sailor's form? 

Or dost thou round the wild Charybdis play, 
To warn the seaman from his dangerous way? 
Or, shrieking midst the tempest, chaunt the dirge 
Of shipwrecked sailors, buried in the surge? 

Tell me, mysterious being, what you are? 
So wild, so strange, so lonely, yet so fair! 
Tell me, tell me, why you sit alone, 
Singing so sweetly on the wave-washed stone? 

And tell me, that if e'er I find my grave, 
Beneath the ocean's wildly troubled wave. 
That thou with weeds wilt strew my watery bed. 
And hush the roaring billows o'er my head. 



ON SOLITUDE. 

(Written in her fourteenth year.) 

Sweet Solitude! I love thy silent shade, 
I love to pause when in life's mad carrer; 

To view the chequered path before me laid, 
And turn to meditate — to hope, to fear. 

'Tis sweet to draw the curtain on the world, 
To shut out all its tumult, all its carej 



POETICAL REMAINS. I75 

Leave the dread vortex, in which all are whirled, 
And to thy shades of twilight calm repair. 

Yet, Solitude, the hand divine, which made 
The earth, the ocean, and the realms of air, 

Pointed how far thy kingdom should extend. 
And bade thee pause, for he had fixed thee there. 

Then, when disgusted with the world and man, 
When sick of pageantry, of pomp, and pride, 

To thee I'll fly, in thee I'll seek relief. 

And hope to find that calm the world denied. 

Adieu, then. Solitude! I fly thy arms, 

I brave a world of peril and of care; 
To tempt the sneer, the laugh, the dreaded scorn, 

Which man with brother man was doomed to share. 

Life would be tasteless, if without alarms; 

What is a smile, divested of a tear? 
Without a thorn the rose would lose its charms, 

For pain makes pleasure but appear more fair. 



176 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



ON THE BIRTH OF A SISTER. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

Sweet babe, I cannot hope that thou'lt be freed 
From woes, to all, since earliest time, decreed; 
But mayst thou he with resignation blessed, 
To bear each evil, howsoe'er distressed. 

May Hope her anchor lead amid the storm, 
And o'er the tempest rear her angel form! 
May sweet Benevolence, whose words are peace, 
To the rude whirlwinds softly whisper "cease!" 

And may Religion, Heaven's own darling child, 
Teach thee at human cares and griefs to smile; 
Teach thee to look beyond this world of wo. 
To Heaven's high fount, whence mercies ever flow. 

And when this vale of tears is safely passed, 
When Death's dark curtain shuts the scene at last. 
May thy freed spirit leave this earthly sod. 
And fly to seek the bosom of thy God. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 177 



A DREAM. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

Methonght, (unwitting how the place I gained,) 

I rested on a fleecy, floating cloud, 

Far o'er the earth, the stars, the sun, the heavens, 

And slowly wheeled around the dread expanse! 

Sudden, methought, a trumpet's voice was heard. 

Pealing with long, loud, death-awakening note, 

Such note as mortal man but once may hear! 

At that heart-piercing summons, there arose 

A crowd fast pouring from the troubled earth! 

The earthy that blackened speck alone seemed moved 

By the dread note, which rushed. 

Like pent up whirlwinds, round Heaven's azure 

vault; 
All other worlds, all other twinkling stars 
Stood mute — stood motionless; 
Their time had not yet come. 
Yet, ever and anon, they seemed to bow 
Before the dread tribunal; 
And the fiery comet, as it blazed along. 
Stopped in its midway course, as conscious of the 

power 
Which onward ever, ever had impelled: 
No other planet moved, none seemed convulsed, 
Save the dim orb of earth! 

\% 



178 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Forth eddying rushed a crowd, confused and dark, 

Like a volcano, muttering and subdued! 

There came no sound distinct, but sighs and groans, 

And murmurings half suppressed, half uttered! 

All eyes were upward turned in wonder and in fear, 

But soon, methought, they onward rolled 

To the dread High One's bar, 

As the tumultuous billows rush murmuring to the 
shore. 

And all distinctions dwindled into naught. 

Upward I cast my eyes; 

High on an azure throne, begirt with clouds, 

Sate the dread Indescribable! 

He raised his sceptre, waved it o'er the crowd, 

And all was calm and silent as the grave! 

He rose; the cherubs flapped their snowy wings! 

On came the rushing wind — the throne was moved. 

And flew like gliding swan above the crowd! 

Sudden it stopped o'er the devoted world! 

The Judge moved forward 'mid his sable shroud, 

Raised his strong arm with rolling thunders clothed. 

Held forth a vial filled with wrathful fire. 

Then poured the contents on the waiting globe ! 

Sudden the chain, which bound it to God's throne, 

Snapped with a dire explosion! 

On wheeled the desolate — the burning orb 

Swift through the heavens! 

Down, down it plunged — then shot across the ex- 
panse, 

Blazing through realms, where light had never 
pierced ! 



POETICAL REMAINS. I79 

Down, down it plunged — fast wheeling from above, 
Shooting forth flames, and sparks, and burning brands, 
Trailing from shade to shade! 
Then bounding, blazing — brighter than before, 
It plunged extinguished in the chaotic gulf! 



TO MY SISTER. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.*) 

When evening spreads hef shades around, 
And darkness fills the arch of heaven; 

When not a murmur, not a sound 
To Fancy's sportive ear is given j 

When the broad orb of heaven is bright, 
And looks around with golden eye; 

When Nature, softened by her light, 
Seems calmly, solemnly to lie; 

Then, when our thoughts are raised above 
This world, and all this world can give; 

Oh, sister, sing the song I love, 
And tears of gratitude receive. 

The song which thrills my bosom's core. 
And hovering, trembles, half afraid; 

* See Biographical Sketch. 



180 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

sister, sing the song oiice more 
Which ne'er for mortal ear was made. 

'Twere almost sacrilege to sing 
Those notes amid the glare of day; 

Notes borne by angel's purest wing, 
And wafted by their breath away. 

When sleeping in my grass-grown bed, 
Should'st thou still linger here above, 

Wilt thou not kneel beside my head, 
And, sister, sing the song I love? 



C UP I D'S BOWER. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

Am I in fairy land? or tell me, pray. 
To what love-lighted bower I've found my way? 
Sure luckless wight was never more beguiled 
In woodland maz^, or closely-tangled wild. 

And is this Cupid's realm? if so, good-bye! 

Cupid, and Cupid's votaries, I fly; 

No ofl*ering to his altar do I bring. 

No bleeding heart — or hymeneal ring. " 

What though he proudly marshals his array 
Of conquered hearts, still bleeding in his way; 



POETICAL REMAINS. 181 

Of sighs, of kisses sweet, of glances sly, 
Playing around some darkly-beauteous eye? 

What though the rose of beauty opening wide, 
Blooms but for him, and fans his lordly pride? 
What though his garden boasts the fairest flower 
That ever dew-drop kissed, or pearly shower; 

Still, Cupid, I'm no votary to thee; 
Thy torch of light will never blaze for me; 
I ask no glance of thine, I ask no sigh; 
I brave thy fury, and thus boldly fly! 

Adieu, then, and forevermore, adieu! 
Ye poor entangled ones, farewell to you! 
And, ye powers! a hapless mortal prays 
For guidance through this labyrinthine maze. 



182 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



THE FAMILY TIME-PIECE. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

Friend of my heart, thou monitor of youth, 
Well do I love thee, dearest child of truth; 
Though many a lonely hour thy whisperings low- 
Have made sad chorus to the notes of wo. 

Or 'mid the happy hour which joyful flew. 
Thou still wert faithful, still unchanged, still true; 
Or when the task employed my infant mind. 
Oft have I sighed to see thee lag behind; 

And watched thy finger, with a youthful glee, 
When it had pointed silently, "be free:" 
Thou wert my mentor through each passing year; 
'Mid pain or pleasure, thou wert ever near. 

And when the wings of time unnoticed flew, 
I paused, reflected, wondered, turned to you; 
Paused in my heedless round, to mark thy hand. 
Pointing to conscience, like a magic wand; 

To watch thee stealing on thy silent way. 
Silent, but sure. Time's pinions cannot stay; 
How many hours of pleasure, hours of pain. 
When smiles were bright'ning round afiliction's train? 



POETICAL REMAINS. 183 

How many hours of poverty and wo, 
Which tanght cold drops of agony to flow? 
How many hours of war,* of blood, of death, 
Which added laurels to the victor's wreath? 

How many deep-drawn sighs thy hand hath told, 
And dimmed the smile, and dried the tear which rolled? 
When the loud cannon spoke the voice of war. 
And death and bloodshed whirled their crimson car? 

When the proud banner, waving in the breeze, 
Had welcomed war, and bade adieu to peace, 
Thy faithful finger traced th^ wing of time. 
Pointed to earth, and then to heaven sublime. 

Unmoved amid the carnage of the world. 
When thousands to eternity were hurled. 
Thy head was reared aloft, truth's chosen child. 
Beaming serenely through the troubled wild. 

Friend of my youth, e'er from its mould'ring clay 
My joyful spirit wings to heaven its way; 
may'st thou watch beside my aching head, 
And tell how fast time flits with feathered tread. 

^ Alluding probably to the late war scenes at Plattsbiirgh. — Ed. 



184 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



ON THE 
EXECUTION OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

Touch not the harp, for Sorrow's voice 

Will mingle in the chorus wild; 
When Scotland weeps, canst thou rejoice? 

No: rather mourn her murdered child. 

Sing how on Carberry's mount of blood, 

'Mid foes exulting in her doom, 
The captive Mary fearless stood, 

A helpless victim for the tomb. 

Justice and Mercy, 'frighted, fled. 

And shrouded was Hope's beacon blaze, 

When, like a lamb to slaughter led. 
Poor Mary met her murderer's gaze. 

Calm was her eye as yon dark lake. 
And changed her once angelic form; 

No sigh was heard the pause to break. 
That awful pause before the storm. 

draw the veil, 'twere shame to gaze 
Upon the bloody tragedy; 



POETICAL REMAINS. 185 

But lo! a brilliant halo plays 
Around the hill of Carberry. 

'Tis done— and Mary's soul has flown 
Beyond this scene of blood and death; 

^Tis done — the lovely saint has gone 
To clainfi in heaven a thornless wreath. 

But as Elijah, when his car 

Wheeled on towards heaven its path of light, 
Dropped on his friend, he left afar, 

His mantle, like a meteor bright; 

So Mary, when her spirit flew 

Far from this world, so sad, so weary, 

A crown of fame immortal threw 
Around the brow of Carberry, 



186 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



f^ THE DESTRUCTION OF 

SODOM AND GOMORRAH. 

" And he looked towards Sodom and Gomorrah, and lo! the 
smoke of the country went up as the smoke of a furnace." 

(Written in her fourteenth year.) 

dread was the night, when o'er Sodom's wide plain 

The fire of heaven descended; 
For all that then bloomed, shall ne'er bloom there 
again, 

For man hath his Maker offended. 

The midnight of terror and wo hath passed by, 

The death-spirit's pinions are furled; 
But the sun, as it beams clear and brilliant on high, 

Hides from Sodom's dark, desolate world. 

Here lies but that glassy, that death-stricken lake. 
As in mockery of what had been there; 

The wild bird flies far from the dark nestling brake. 
Which waves its scorched arms in the air. 

In that city the wine-cup was brilliantly flowing, 

Joy held her high festival there; 
Not a fond bosom dreaming, (in luxury glowing,) 

Of the close of that night of despair. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 1S7 

For the bride, her handmaiden the garland was wreath- 
ing, 

At the altar the bridegroom was waiting, 
But vengeance impatiently round them was breathing, 

And Death at that shrine was their greeting. 

But the wine-cup is empty, and broken it lies, 

The lip, which it foamed for, is cold; 
For the red wing of Death o'er Gomorrah now flies, 

And Sodom is wrapped in its fold. 

The bride is wedded, but the bridegroom is Death, 
With his cold, damp, and grave-like hand; 

Her pillow is ashes, the slime-weed her wreath. 
Heaven's flames are her nuptial band. 

And near to that cold, that desolate sea. 

Whose fruits are to ashes now turned. 
Not a fresh blown flower, not a budding tree. 

Now blooms where those cities were burned. 



188 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



RUTH^S ANSWER TO NAOMI. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

Entreat me not, I must not hear, 
Mark but this sorrow-beaming tear; 
Thy answer's written deeply now 
On this warm cheek and clouded brov/j 
'Tis gleaming o'er this eye of sadness 
Which only near thee sparkles gladness. 

The hearts most dear to us are gone, 
And thou and /are left alone; 
Where'er thou wanderest, I will go, 
I'll follow thee through joy or wo; 
Shouldst thou to other countries fly. 
Where'er thou lodgest, there will I. 

Thy people shall my people be, 
And to thy God, I'll bend the knee; 
Whither thou fliest, will I fly, 
And where thou diest, I will die; 
And the same sod which pillows thee 
Shall freshly, sweetly bloom for me. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 189 



DAVID AND JONATHAN. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

On the brow of Gilboa is war's bloodly stain, 
The pride and the beauty of Israel is slain; 
publish it not in proud Askelon's street, 
Nor tell it in Gath, lest in triumph they meet, 

For. how are the mighty fallen! 

mount of Gilboa, no dew shalt thou see, 
Save the blood of the Philistine fall upon thee; 
For the strong-pinioned eagle of Israel is dead. 
Thy brow is his pillow, thy bosom his bed! 

how are the mighty fallen! 

Weep, daughters of Israel, weep o'er his grave! 
What breast will now pity, what arm will now save? 
my brother! my brother! this heart bleeds for thee. 
For thou wert a friend and a brother to me! 

Ah, how are the mighty fallen! 



190 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



THE SICK BED. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

have you watched beside the bed, 
Where rests the weary, aching head? 

And have you heard the long, deep groan, 
The low said prayer, in half-breathed tone? 

have you seen the fevered sleep. 

Which speaks of agony within? 
The eye which would, but cannot weep, 

And wipe away the stains of sin? 

have you marked the struggling breath, 
Which would but cannot leave its clay? 

And have you marked the hand of death 
Unbind, and bid it haste away? 

Then thou hast seen what thou shalt feel; 

Then thou hast read thy future doom; 
pause, one moment, o'er death's seal, 

There's no repentance in the tomb. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 191 



DEATH. 

(Written in her sixteenth year.) 

The destroyer cometh; his footstep is light, 
He marketh the threshold of sorrow at night; 
He steals like a thief o'er the fond one's repose, 
And chills the warm tide from the heart as it flows. 

His throne is the tomb, and a pestilent breath 
Walks forth on the night-wind, the herald of death! 
His couch is the bier, and the dark weeds of wo 
Are the curtains which shroud joy's deadliest foe. 



TO MY MOTHER. 

(Written in her sixteenth year.) 

thou whose care sustained my infant years, 
And taught my prattling lip each note of love; 

Whose soothing voice breathed comfort to my fears, 
And round my brow hope's brightest garland wove; 

To thee my lay is due, the simple song. 

Which Nature gave me at life's opening day; 

To thee these rude, these untaught strains belong. 
Whose heart indulgent will not spurn my lay. 



192 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

say, amid this wilderness of life, 

What bosom would have throbbed like thine forme? 
Who would have smiled responsive? — who in grief, 

Would e'er have felt, and, feeling, grieved like thee? 

Who would have guarded, with a falcon-eye. 
Each trembling footstep or each sport of fear? 

Who would have marked my bosom bounding high, 
And clasped me to her heart, with love's bright tear? 

Who would have hung around my sleepless couch, 
And fanned, with anxious hand, my burning brow? 

Who would have fondly pressed my fevered lip, 
In all the agony of love and wo? 

None but a mother — none but one like thee, 
Whose bloom has faded in the midnight watch; 

Whose eye, for me, has lost its witchery. 
Whose form has felt disease's mildew touch. 

Yes, thou hast lighted me to health and life, 
By the bright lustre of thy youthful bloom — 

Yes, thou hast wept so oft o'er every grief. 

That wo hath traced thy brow with marks of gloom. 

then, to thee, this rude and simple song. 

Which breathes of thankfulness and love for thee, 

To thee, my mother, shall this lay belong. 
Whose life is spent in toil and care for me. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 193 



S ABRIN A. 

A VOLCANIC ISLAND, WHICH APPEARED AND DIS- 
APPEARED AMONG THE AZORES, IN 1811. 

(Written in her sixteenth year.) 

Isle of the ocean, say, whence comest thou? 

The smoke thy dark throne, and the blaze round thy 

brow; 
The voice of the earthquake proclaims thee abroad. 
And the deep, at thy coming, rolls darkly and loud. 

From the breast of the ocean, the bed of the wave, 
Thou hast burst into being, hast sprung from the grave; 
A stranger, wild, gloomy, yet terribly bright, 
Thou art clothed with the darkness, yet crowned with 
the light. 

Thou comest in flames, thou hast risen in fire; 
The wave is thy pillow, the tempest thy choir; 
They will lull thee to sleep on the ocean's broad breast, 
A slumb'ring volcano, an earthquake at rest. 

Thou hast looked on the isle — thou hast looked on the 

wave — 
Then hie thee again to thy deep, watery grave; 
Go, quench thee in ocean, thou dark, nameless thing, 
Thou spark from \h% fallen one's wide flaming wing. 

13 



194 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



THE PROPHECY. 



TO A LADY. 



(Written in her sixteenth year.) 



Let me gaze awhile on that marble brow, 

On that full, dark eye, on that cheek's warm glow; 

Let me gaze for a moment, that, ere I die, 

I may read thee, maiden, a prophecy. 

That brow may beam in glory awhile; 

That cheek may bloom, and that lip may smile; 

That full, dark eye may brightly beam 

In life's gay morn, in hope's young dream; 

But clouds shall darken that brow of snow, 

And sorrow blight thy bosom's glow. 

I know by that spirit so haughty and high, 

I know by that brightly-flashing eye, 

That, maiden, there's that within thy breast. 

Which hath marked thee out for a soul unblest: 

The strife of love, with pride shall wring 

Thy youthful bosom's tenderest string; 

And the cup of sorrow, mingled for thee. 

Shall be drained to the dregs in agony. 

Yes, maiden, yes, I read in thine eye, 

A dark, and a doubtful prophecy. 

Thou shalt love, and that love shall be thy curse; 

Thou wilt need no heavier, thou shalt feel no worse. 



POETICAL REMAINS. I95 

I see the cloud and the tempest near; 

The voice of the troubled tide I hear; 

The torrent of sorrow, the sea of grief, 

The rushing waves of a wretched life; 

Thy bosom's bark on the surge I see. 

And, maiden, thy loved one is there with thee. 

Not a star in the heavens, not a light on the wave! 

Maiden, I've gazed on thine early grave. 

When I am cold, and the hand of Death 

Hath crowned my brow with an icy wreath; 

When the dew hangs damp on this motionless lip; 

When this eye is closed in its long, last sleep. 

Then, maiden, pause, when thy heart beats high. 

And think on my last sad prophecy. 



PROPHECY II. 

TO ANOTHER LADY. 

(Written in her sixteenth year,) 

I have told a maiden of hours of grief. 
Of a bleeding heart, of a joyless life; 
I have read her a tale of future wo; 
I have marked her a pathway of sorrow below; 
I have read on the page of her blooming cheek, 
A darker doom than my tongue dare speak. 
Now, maiden, for thee, I will turn mine eye 
To a brighter path through futurity. 



196 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

The clouds shall pass from thy brow away, 
And bright be the closing of life's long day; 
The storms shall murmur in silence to sleep, 
And angels around thee their watches shall keep; 
Thou shalt live in the sunbeams of love and delight, 
And thy life shall flow on 'till it fades into night; 
And the twilight of age shall come quietly on; 
Thou wilt feel, yet regret not, that daylight hath flown; 
For the shadows of evening shall melt o'er thy soul. 
And the soft dreams of Heaven around thee shall roll, 
'Till sinking in sweet, dreamless slumber to rest. 
In the arms of thy loved one, still blessing and blest, 
Thy soul shall glide on to its harbour in Heaven, 
Every tear wiped away — every error forgiven. 



PROPHECY III. 

TO ANOTHER LADY. 

(Written in her sixteenth year.) 

Wilt thou rashly unveil the dark volume of fate? 
It is open before thee, repentance is late; 
Too late, for behold, o'er the dark page of wo, 
Move the days of thy grief, yet unnumbered below. 
There is one, whose sad destiny mingles with thine; 
He was formed to be happy — he dared to repine; 
And jealousy mixed in liis bright cup of bliss, 
And the page of his fate grew still darker than this: 



POETICAL REMAINS. I97 

He gazed on thee, maiden, he met thee, and passed; 
Bat better for thee had the Siroc's fell blast 
Swept by thee, and wasted and faded thee there, 
So youthful, so happy, so thoughtless, so fair. 
And mark ye his broad brow? ^tis noble; 'tis high; 
And mark ye the flash of his dark, eagle-eye? 
When the wide wheels of time have encircled the 

world; 
When the banners of night in the sky are unfurled; 
Then, maiden, remember the tale I have told, 
For farther I may not, I dare not unfold. 
The rose on yon dark page is sear and decayed, 
And thus, e'en in youth, shall thy fondest hopes fade; 
'Tis an emblem of thee, broken, withered, and pale — 
Nay, start not, and blanch not, though dark be the tale; 
An hour-glass half-spent, and a tear-bedewed token, 
A heart, withered, wasted, and bleeding and broken^ 
All these are the emblems of sorrow to be; 
I will veil the page, maiden, in pity to thee. 



198 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



BYRON. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

His faults were great, his virtues less, 
His mind a burning lamp of Heaven; 

His talents were bestowed to bless, 
But were as vainly lost as given. 

His was a harp of heavenly sound, 
The numbers wild, and bold, and clear; 

But ah! some demon, hovering round, 
Tuned its sweet chords to Sin and Fear. 

His was a mind of giant mould. 

Which grasped at all beneath the skies; 

And his, a heart, so icy cold. 
That virtue in its recess dies. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 199 



FEATS OF DEATH. 

(Written in her sixteenth year.) 

I have passed o'er the earth in the darkness of night, 
I have walked the wild winds in the morning's broad 

light; 
I have paused o'er the bower where the Infant lay 

sleeping, 
And I've left the fond mother in sorrow and weeping. 

My pinion was spread, and the cold dew of night 
Which withers and moulders the flower in its light, 
Fell silently o'er the warm cheek in its glow. 
And I left it there blighted, and wasted, and low; 
I culled the fair bud, as it danced in its mirth. 
And I left it to moulder and fade on the earth. 

I paused o'er the valley, the glad sounds of joy 
Rose soft through the mist, and ascended on high; 
The fairest were there, and I paused in my flight. 
And the deep cry of wailing broke wildly that night. 

I stay not to gather the lone one to earth, 
I spare not the young in their gay dance of mirth. 
But I sweep them all on to their home in the grave, 
I stop not to pity — I stay not to save. 



200 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

I paused in my pathway, for beauty was there; 
It was beauty too death-like, too cold, and too fair! 
The deep purple fountain seemed melting away, 
And the faint pulse of life scarce remembered to play; 
She had thought on the tomb, she was waiting for me, 
I gazed, I passed on, and her spirit was free. 

The clear stream rolled gladly, and bounded along, 
With ripple, and murmur, and sparkle, and song; 
The minstrel was tuning his wild harp to love. 
And sweet, and half-sad were the numbers he wove. 
I passed, and the harp of the bard was unstrung; 
O'er the stream which rolled deeply, 'twas recklessly 

hung; 
The minstrel was not! and I passed on alone. 
O'er the newly-raised turf, and the rudely-carved stone. 



AUCTION EXTRAORDINARY. 

(Written in her sixteenth year.) 

I dreamed a dream in the midst of my slumbers. 
And as fast as I dreamed it, it came into numbers; 
My thoughts ran along in such beautiful metre, 
I'm sure I ne'er saw any poetry sweeter; 
It seemed that a law had been recently made 
That a tax on old bachelors' pates should be laid: 



POETICAL REMAINS. 201 

And in order to make them all willing to marry, 
The tax was as large as a man could well carry. 
The bachelors grumbled, and said 'twas no use; 
'Twas horrid injustice, and horrid abuse. 
And declared that to save their own hearts' blood from 

spilling, 
Of such a vile tax they would not pay a shilling. 
But the rulers determined them still to pursue. 
So they set all the old bachelors up at vendue. 
A crier was sent through the town to and fro, 
To rattle his bell, and his trumpet to blow. 
And to call out to all he might meet in his way. 
Ho! forty old bachelors sold here to-day; 
And presently all the old maids in the town. 
Each in her very best bonnet and gown, 
From thirty to sixty, fair, plain, red, and pale, 
Of every description, all flocked to the sale. 
The auctioneer then in his labour began. 
And called out aloud, as he held up a man, 
"How much for a bachelor? who wants to buy?" 
In a twink,* every maiden responded, "I, — I;'^ 
In short, at a highly-extravagant price, 
The bachelors all were sold off in a trice; 
And forty old maidens, some younger, some older. 
Each lugged an old bachelor home on her shoulder. 

* " That in a twinh she won me to her \o\Q.''''—Shahspeare,— 
[[Editor.] 



202 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



THE BACHELOR. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

To the world, (whose dread laugh he would tremble 

to hear, 
From whose scorn he would shrink with a cowardly 

fear,) 
The old bachelor proudly and boldly will say. 
Single lives are the longest, single lives are most gay. 

To the ladies, with pride, he will always declare, 
That the links in love's chain are strife, trouble, and 

care; 
That a wife is a torment, and he will have none, 
But at pleasure will roam through the wide world 

alone. 

And let him pass on, in his sulky of state; 
say, who would envy that mortal his fate? 
To brave all the ills of life's tempest alone. 
Not a heart to respond the warm notes of his own. 

His joys undivided no longer will please; 
The warm tide of his heart through inaction will freeze: 
His sorrows concealed, and unanswered his sighs, 
The old bachelor curses his folly and dies. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 203 

Pass on, then, proud lone one, pass on to thy fate; 
Thy sentence is sealed, thy repentance too late; 
Like an arrow, which leaves not a trace on the wind. 
No mark of thy pathway shall linger behind. 

Not a sweet voice shall mnrnriur its sighs o'er thy tomb; 
Not a fair hand shall teach thy lone pillow to bloom; 
Not a kind tear shall water thy dark, lonely bed; 
By the living 'twas scorned, 'tis refused to the dead. 



THE GUARDIAN ANGEL. 

TO MISS E. C. — COMPOSED ON A BLANK LEAP OF 
HER PALEY, DURING RECITATION. 

X^ritten in her sixteenth year.) 

I'm thy guardian angel, sweet maid, and I rest 
In mine own chosen temple, thy innocent breast; 
At midnight I steal from my sacred retreat. 
When the chords of thy heart in soft unison beat. 

When thy bright eye is closed, when thy dark tresses 

flow 
In beautiful wreaths o'er thy pillow of snow; 
then I watch o'er thee, all pure as thou art, 
And listen to music which steals from thy heart. 



204 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Thy smile is the sunshine which gladdens my soul, 
My tempest the clouds, which around thee may roll; 
I feast my light form on thy rapture-breathed sighs, 
And drink at the fount of those beautiful eyes. 

The thoughts of thy heart are recorded by me; 
There are some which, half-breathed, half acknow- 
ledged by thee, 
Steal sweetly and silently o'er thy pure breast, 
Just ruffling its calmness, then murm'ring to rest. 

Like a breeze o'er the lake, when it breathlessly lies. 
With its own mimic mountains, and star-spangled 

skies, 
I stretch my light pinions around thee when sleeping, 
To guard thee from spirits of sorrow and weeping. 

I breathe o'er thy slumbers sweet dreams of delight, 
Till you wake but to sigh for the visions of night; 
Then remember, wherever your pathway may lie, 
Be it clouded with sorrow, or brilliant with joy, 
My spirit shall watch thee, wherever thou art. 
My incense shall rise from the throne of thy heart. 
Farewell! for the shadows of evening are fled. 
And the young rays of morning are wreathed round 
my head. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 205 



ON THE CREW OF A VESSEL, 

WHO WERE FOUND DEAD AT SEA. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

The breeze blew fair, the waving sea 
Curled sparkling round the vessel's side; 

The canvass spread with bosom free 
Its swan-like pinions o'er the tide. 

Evening had gemmed with glittering stars, 

Her coronet so darkly grand; 
The Queen of Night, with fleecy clouds 

Had formed her turban's snowy band. 

On, on the stately vessel flew. 

With streamer waving far and wide; 

When lo! a bark appeared in view. 
And gaily danced upon the tide. 

Each way the breeze its wild wing veered. 
That way the stranger vessel turned; 

Now near she drew, now wafted far. 
She fluttered, trembled, and returned. 

" It is the pirate's cursed bark ! 
The villains linger to decoy I 



206 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Thus bounding o'er the waters dark, 
They seek to lure, and then destroy. 



"Perchance, those strange and wayward signs 

May be the signals of distress," 
The Captain cried, "for mark ye, now. 

Her sails are flapping wide and loose.'^ 

And now the stranger vessel came 
Near to that gay and gallant bark; 

It seemed a wanderer fair and lone, 
Upon Life's wave, so deep and dark. 

And not a murmur, not a sound, 

Came from that lone and dreary ship; 

The icy chains of silence bound 
Each rayless eye and pallid lip. 

For Death's wing had been waving there, 
The cold dew hung on every brow. 

And sparkled there, like angel tears. 
Shed o'er the silent crew below. 

Onward that ship was gaily flying. 

Its bosom the sailor's grave; 
The breeze, 'mid the shrouds, in low notes, sighing 

Their requiem over the brave. 

Fly on, fly on, thou lone vessel of death, 

Fly on, with thy desolate crew; 
For mermaids are twining a sea-weed wreath, 

'Mong the red coral groves for you. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 207 



WOMAN'S LOVE. 

("Written in her fifteenth year.) 

They told me of her history — her love 
Was a neglected flame, which had consumed 
The rose wherein it kindled. how fraught 
With bitterness is unrequited love! 
To know that we have cast life's hope away 
On a vain shadow! 

Hers was a gentle passion, quiet, deep, 
As a woman's love should be, 
All tenderness and silence, only known 
By the soft meaning of a downcast eye. 
Which almost fears to look its timid thoughts; 
A sigh, scarce heard; a blush, scarce visible. 
Alone may give it utterance. — Love is 
A beautiful feeling in a woman's heart. 
When felt, as only woman love can feel ! 
Pure, as the snow-fall, when its latest shower 
Sinks on spring-flowers; deep, as a cave-locked foun- 
tain; 
And changeless as the cypress' green leaves; 
And like them, sad! She nourished 
Fond hopes and sweet anxieties, and fed 
A passion unconfessed, till he she loved 
Was wedded to another. — Then she grew 
Moody and melancholy; one alone 



t^ 



208 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Had power to soothe her in her wanderings, 

Her gentle sister; — but that sister died, 

And the unhappy girl was left alone, 

A maniac. — She would wander far, and shunned 

Her own accustomed dwelling; and her haunt 

Was that dead sister's grave: and that to her 

Was as a home. 



TO A LADY, 

WHOSE SINGING RESEMBLED THAT OF AN" ABSENT 

SISTER. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

Oh! touch the chord yet once again, 
Nor chide me, though I weep the while; 

Believe me, that deep seraph strain 

Bore with it memory's moonlight smile. 

It murmured of an absent friend; 

The voice, the air, 'twas all her own; 
And hers those wild, sweet notes, which blend 

In one mild, mumuring, touching tone. 

And days and months have darkly passed, - 

Since last I listened to her lay; 
And Sorrow's cloud its shade hath cast, 

Since then, across my weary way. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 209 

Yet still the strain comes sweet and clear, 
Like seraph-whispers, lightly breathing; 

Hush, busy memory, Sorrow's tear 
Will blight the garland thou art wreathing. 

'Tis sweet, though sad — yes, I will stay, 

I cannot tear myself away. 

I thank thee, lady, for the strain, 

The tempest of my soul is still; 
Then touch the chord yet once again, 

For thou canst calm the storm at will; 



TO MY FRIEND AND PATRON, 

M K , ESQ. 

(Written in her sixteenth year.) 

And can my simple harp be strung 
To higher theme, to nobler end, 

Than that of gratitude to thee. 
To thee, my father and my friend? 

I may not, cannot, will not say 

All that a grateful heart would breathe; 
But I may frame a simple lay. 

Nor Slander blight the blushing wreath. 
14 



210 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Yes, I will touch the string to thee, 
Nor fear its wildness will offend; 

For well I know that thou wilt be. 
What thou hast ever been — a friend. 

There are, whose cold and idle gaze 
Would freeze the current where it flows; 

But Gratitude shall guard the fount, 
And Faith shall light it as it flows. 

Then tell me, may I dare to twine 
While o'er my simple harp I bend, 

This little ofl'ering for thee. 

For thee, my father, and my friend? 



POETICAL REMAINS. 2II 



ON SEEING 
A PICTURE OF THE VIRGIN MARY, 

PAINTED SEVERAL CENTURIES SINCE. 

A FRAGMENT. 
(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

Roll back, thou tide of time, and tell 

Of book, of rosary, and bell; 

Of cloistered nun, with brow of gloom, 

Immured within her living tomb; 

Of monks, of saints, and vesper-song, 

Borne gently by the breeze along: 

Of deep-toned organ's pealing swell; 

Of Ave Marie, and funeral knell; 

Of midnight taper, dim and small, 

Just gUmmering through the high-arched hall; 

Of gloomy cell, of penance lone, 

Which can for darkest deeds atone; 

Roll back, and lift the vale of night, 

For I would view the anchorite. 

Yes, there he sits, so sad, so pale, 

Shuddering at Superstition's tale; 

Crossing his breast with meagre hand. 

While saints and priests, a motley band, 



212 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Arrayed before him, urge their claim 

To heal in the Redeemer's name; 

To mount the saintly ladder, (made 

By every monk, of every grade, 

From portly abbot, fat and fair, 

To yon lean starveling, shivering there, 

And mounting thus, to usher in 

The soul, thus ransomed from its sin. 

And tell me, hapless bigot, why. 

For what, for whom did Jesus die, 

If pyramids of saints must rise 

To form a passage to the skies? 

And think you man can wipe away 

With fast and penance, day by day. 

One single sin, too dark to fade 

Before a bleeding Saviour's shade? 

ye of little faith, beware! 

For neither shrift, nor saint, nor prayer. 

Would aught avail ye without Him, 

Beside whom saints themselves grow dim. 

Roll back, thou tide of time, and raise 

The faded forms of other days! 

Yon time-worn picture, darkly grand, 

The work of some forgotten hand. 

Will teach thee half thy mazy way, 

While Fancy's watch-fires dimly play. 

Roll back, thou tide of time, and tell 

Of secret charm, of holy spell. 

Of Superstition's midnight rite. 

Of wild Devotion's seraph flight. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 213 

Of Melancholy's tearful eye, 
Of the sad votaress' frequent sigh, 
That trembling from her bosom rose, 
Divided 'twixt her Saviour's woes 
And some warm image lingering there, 
Which, half-repulsed by midnight prayer. 
Still, Hke an outcast child, will creep 
Where sweetly it was wont to sleep. 
And mingle its unhallowed sigh 
With cloister-prayer and rosary; 
Then tell the pale, dekided one 
Her vows are breathed to God alone; 
Those vows, which tremulously rise. 

Love's last, love's sweetest sacrifice. 

[ Unfinished. '\ 



214 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



AMERICAN POETRY. 

A FRAGMENT. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

Must every shore ring boldly to the voice 

Of sweet poetic harmony, save this? 

Rouse thee, America! for shame! for shame! 

Gather thy infant bands, and rise to join 
Thy gUmmering taper to the holy flame: — 

Such honour, if no other, may be thine. 
Shall Gallia's children sing beneath the yoke? 

Shall Ireland's harpstrings thrill, though all unstrimg? 
And must America, her bondage broke. 

Oppression's blood-stains from her garment wrung, 
Must she be silent? — who may then rejoice? 

If she be tuneless. Harmony, farewell! 
Oh! shame, America! wild freedom's voice 

Echoes, "shame on thee," from her wild-wood dell. 
Shall conquered Greece still sing her glories past? 
Shall humbled Italy in ruins smile? 
And canst thou then [ Un finished,. '\ 



POETICAL REMAINS. 215 



HEADACHE. 

(Written in her fifteenth year. 

Headache! thou bane to Pleasure's fairy spell, 
Thou fiend, thou foe to joy, I know thee well! 
Beneath thy lash I've writhed for many an hour, — 
I hate thee, for I've known, and dread thy power. 

Even the heathen gods were made to feel 
The aching torments which thy hand can deal; 
And Jove, the ideal king of heaven and earth, 
Owned thy dread power, which called stern Wisd 
forth. 

Wouldst thou thus ever bless each aching head, 
And bid Minerva make the brain her bed. 
Blessings might then be taught to rise from wo, 
And Wisdom spring from every throbbing brow. 

But always the reverse to me, unkind. 
Folly forever dogs thee close behind ; 
And from this burning brow, her cap and bell. 
Forever jingle Wisdom's funeral knell. 



216 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



TO A STAR. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

Thou brightly-glittering star of even, 
Thou gem upon the brow of Heaven, 
Oh! were this fluttering spirit free, 
How quick ^twould spread its wings to thee. 

How calmly, brightly dost thou shine. 
Like the pure lamp in Virtue's shrine ! 
Sure the fair world which thou mayst boast 
Was never ransomed, never lost. 

There, beings pure as Heaven's own air. 
Their hopes, their joys together share; 
While hovering angels touch the string, 
And seraphs spread the sheltering wing. 

There cloudless days and brilliant nights, 
Illumed by Heaven's refulgent lights; 
There seasons, years, unnoticed roll, 
And unregretted by the soul. 

Thou little sparkling star of even. 
Thou gem upon an azure Heaven, 
How swiftly will I soar to thee. 
When this imprisoned soul is free. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 217 



SONG OF VICTORY, 
FOR THE DEATH OF GOLIATH. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

Strike with joy the wild harp's string, 
God, Israel, is your King! 
We have slain our deadliest foe, 
David's arm hath laid him low. 

Saul hath oft his thousands slain, 
His trophies have bedecked the plain; 
But David's tens of thousands lie 
In slaughtered millions, mounted high. 

Sound the trumpet — strike the string, 
Loud let the song of victory ring; 
Wreathe with glory David's brow. 
He hath laid Goliath low. 

Mark him on your crimson plain, 
He is conquered — he is slain; 
He who lately rose so high, 
Scoffed at man, and braved the sky. 

Strike with joy the wild harp's string, 
God, Israel, is your King! 



2 IS LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

We have slain our deadliest foe, 
David's arm hath laid him low. 



THE INDIAN CHIEF AND CONCONAY. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

The Indian Chieftain is far away, 

Through the forest his footsteps fly, 
But his heart is behind him with Conconay, 
He thinks of his love in the bloody fray. 

When the storm of war is high. 

Bat little he thinks of the bloody foe. 

Who is bearing that love away; 
And little he thinks of her bosom's wo. 
And little he thinks of the burning brow 

Of his lovely Conconay. 

They tore her away from her friends, from her home, 

They tore her away from her Chief. 
Through the wild-wood, when weary, they forced her 

to roam. 
Or to dash the light oar in the river's white foam, 

While her bosom o'erflowed with grief. 

But there came a foot, 'twas swift, 'twas light, 

'Twas the brother of him she loved; 
His heart was kind, and his eye was bright; 



POETICAL REMAINS. 219 

He paused not hy day, and he slept not by night, 
While through the wild forest he roved. 

'Twas Lightfoot, the generous, 'twas Lightfoot the 
young, 
And he loved the sweet Conconay; 
But his bosom to honour and virtue was strung. 
And the chords of his heart should to breaking be 
wrung, 
Ere love should gain o'er him the sway. 

Far, far from her stern foes he bore her away. 

And sought his own forest once more; 
But sad was the heart of the young Conconay, 
Her bosom recoiled when she strove to be gay, 
And was even more drear than before. 

'Tis evening, and weary, and faint, and weak 

Is the beautiful Conconay; 
She could wander no farther, she strove to speak, 
But Ufeless she sunk upon Lightfoot's neck, 

And seemed breathing her soul away. 

The young warrior raised his eyes to Heaven, 

He turned them towards the west; 
For one moment a ray of light was given. 
Like lightning, which through the cloud hath riven 

But to strike at the fated breast. 

For there was his brother returning from far. 
O'er his shoulder his scalps were slung; 



220 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

For he had been victor amid the war, 
His plume had gleamed like the polar star, 
And on him had the victory hung. 

The Chieftain paused in his swift career. 

For he knew his Conconay; 
He saw the maid his heart held dear. 
On the breast of his brother, in the forest drear, 

From her home so far away. 

He bent his bow, the arrow flew. 

It was aimed at Lightfoot's breast; 
And it pierced a heart, as warm and true 
As ever a mortal bosom knew, 

Or in mortal garb was dressed. 

He turned to his love — from her brilliant eye 

The cloud was passing away; 
She let fall a tear — she breathed a sigh — 
She turned towards Lightfoot — she uttered a cry. 

For weltering in gore he lay. 

Her heart was filled with horror and wo. 

When she gazed on the form of her Chief; 
'Twas his loved hand that had bent the bow, 
^Twas he who had laid her preserver low; 
And she yielded her soul to grief. 

And ^twas said, that ere time had healed the wound 

In the breast of the mourning maid, 
That a pillar was reared on the fatal ground. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 221 

And ivy the snow-white monument crowned 
With its dark and jealous shade. 



THE MOTHER'S LAMENT 

FOR HER INFANT. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

Cold is his brow, and the dew of the evening 
Hangs damp o'er that form I so fondly caressed; 

Dim is that eye, which once sparkled with gladness, 
Hushed are the griefs of my infant to rest. 

Calmly he lies on a bosom far colder 

Than that which once pillowed his health-blushing 
cheek; 
Calmly he'll rest there, and silently moulder, 

No grief to disturb him, no sigh to awake. 

Dread king of the grave. Oh! return me my child! 

Unfetter his heart from the cold chains of death! 
Monarch of terrors, so gloomy, so silent. 

Loose the adamant clasp of thy cold icy wreath! 

Where is my infant? the storms may descend. 
The snows of the winter may cover his head; 



222 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

The wing of the wind o'er his low couch may bend, 
And the frosts of the night sparkle bright o'er the 
dead. 

Where is my infant? the damp ground is cold, 
Too cold for those features so laughing and light; 

Methinks, these fond arms should encircle his form, 
And shield off the tempest which wanders at night. 

This fond bosom loved him, ah! loved him too dearly, 
And the frail idol fell, while I bent to adore; 

All its beauty has faded, and broken before me 
Is the god my heart ventured to worship before. 

'Tis just, and I bow ^neath the mandate of Heaven, 
Thy will, oh, my Father! for ever be done! 

Bless God, my soul, for the chastisement given, 
Henceforth will I worship my Saviour alone! 



POETICAL REMAINS. 223 



ON THE MOTTO OF A SEAL. 

"IF I LOSE THEE, I AM LOST." 
ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

Wafted o'er a treacherous sea, 
Far from home, and far from ihee; 
Between the Heaven and ocean tossed, 
" If I lose thee, I am lost.^' 

When the polar star is beaming 
O'er the dark-browed billows gleaming, 
I think of thee and dangers crossed, 
For, "if I lose thee, I am lost." 

When the lighthouse fire is blazing, 
High towards Heaven its red crest raising, 
I think of thee, while onward tossed. 
For " if I lose thee, I am lost.'-' 



224 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



MORNING. 

(Written in her sixteenth year.) 

I come in the breath of the wakened breeze, 
I kiss the flowers, and I bend the trees; 
And I shake the dew, which hath fallen by night, 
From its throne, on the Uly's pure bosom of white. 
Awake thee, when bright from my couch in the sky, 
I beam o'er the mountains, and come from on high; 
When my gay purple banners are waving afar; 
When my herald, gray dawn, hath extinguished each 

star; 
When I smile on the woodlands, and bend o'er the lake, 
Then awake thee, maiden, I bid thee awake! 
Thou mayst slumber when all the wide arches of 

Heaven 
Glitter bright with the beautiful fires of even; 
When the moon walks in glory, and looks from on high. 
O'er the clouds floating far through the clear azure sky. 
Drifting on like the beautiful vessels of Heaven, 
To their far away harbour, all silently driven. 
Bearing on, in their bosoms, the children of light. 
Who have fled from this dark world of sorrow and 

night; 
When the lake lies in calmness and darkness, save 

where 
The bright ripple curls, 'neath the smile of a star; 



POETICAL REMAINS. 225 

When all is in silence and solitude here, 
Then sleep, maiden, sleep! without sorrow or fear! 
But when I steal silently over the lake, 
Awake thee then, maiden, awake! oh, awake! 



S H A K S P E A R E . 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

Shakspeare! " with all thy faults, (and few have more,) 

I love thee still,'' and still will con thee o'er. 

Heaven, in compassion to man's erring heart, 

Gave thee of virtue — then, of vice a part, 

Lest we, in wonder here, should bow before thee. 

Break God's commandment, worship, and adore thee: 

But admiration now, and sorrow join; 

His works we reverence, while we pity thine. 



15 



226 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



TO A FRIEND, 

WHOM I HAD NOT SEEN SINCE MY CHILDHOOD. 

("Written in her sixteenth year.) 

And thou hast marked, in childhood's hour. 
The fearless boundings of my breast, 

When fresh as Summer's opening flower, 
I freely frolicked, and was blessed. 

Oh! say, was not this eye more bright? 

Were not these lips more wont to smile? 
Methinks that then my heart was light, 

And I a fearless, joyous child. 

And thou didst mark me gay and wild, 
My careless, reckless laugh of mirth ; 

The simple pleasures of a child. 
The holiday of man on earth. 

Then thou hast seen me in that hour, 
When every nerve of life was new. 

When pleasures fanned youth's infant flower, 
And Hope her witcheries round it threw. 

That hour is fading, it has fled, 
And I am left in darkness now; 



POETICAL REMAINS. 227 



A wand'rer towards a lowly bed, 
The grave, that home of all below. 



THE FEAR OF MADNESS. 

WRITTEN WHILE CONFINED TO HER BED, DURING HER 
LAST ILLNESS. 

There is a something which I dread, 

It is a dark, a fearful thing; 
It steals along with withering tread, 

Or sweeps on wild destruction's wing. 

That thought comes o'er me in the hour 
Of grief, of sickness, or of sadness; 

'Tis not the dread of death — 'tis more, 
It is the dread of madness. 

Oh! may these throbbing pulses pause, 
Forgetful of their feverish course; 

May this hot brain, which burning, glows 
With all a fiery whirlpool's force, 

Be cold, and motionless, and still, 

A tenant of its lowly bed. 
But let not dark delirium steal — 

******** 

[ Unfinished.'] 

(This was the last piece she ever wrote.) 



22S LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



MARITORNE, 

OR THE 

PIRATE OF MEXICO. 

(Written in her seventeenth year.) 

On Barritaria's brow the watch-fires glow, 

Their beacons beaming on the gulf below, 

As if to dare some death devoted hand 

To quench in blood the boldly blazing brand; 

Some Orlean herald arm'd with threatening high 

To daunt the Pirate-chieftain's haughty eye, 

To bid him bend to tame and vulgar law, 

And bow to painted things with trembling awe. 

Such herald well may come, — but wo betide 

The self-devoted messenger of pride! 

Such herald well may come, but far and near 

The name of Maritorne is joined with fear; 

His vessels proudly ride the Gulf at will. 

Whilst he is Chief of Barritaria's Isle. 

The iron hand of power is rais'd in vain, 

Whilst Maritorne is master of the main. 

'Tis his to sacrifice — 'tis his to spare — 

He moves in silence, and is everywhere. 

His victims must with pompous boldness bleed. 

But if he pities, who may tell the deed? 



POETICAL REMAINS. 229 

^Tis done in secret, that no eye may mark 

One thought more gentle, or one act less dark. 

And he, the governor of yon fair land 

Whose tongue speaks freedom, but whose guilty hand 

Grasps the half loos'ned manacles again, 

And adds unseen fresh links to slavery^s chain, 

Hated full deeply, dreaded and abhorr'd 

The Pirate-chief, the haughty island lord. 

And cause enough, deep hidden in his breast, 

Had Ae, the moody leader of the west, 

To hate that fearful man, who stood alone 

Feared, dreaded, and detested, tho' unknown; 

That cause was smother'd or burst forth to light, 

Wreath'd in the incense of a patriot's right, 

To drive the bold intruder from the shore, 

Where war and bloodshed must appear no more; 

But deep within his heart the crater glow'd 

From whence this gilded stream of lava flow'd; 

'Twas wounded pride, which, writhing inly, bled, 

And called for vengeance on the offender's head; 

For Maritorne, with bold unbending brow, 

Had scorn'd his power — that were enough; — but lo! 

There, on the very threshold of his home, 

There had the traitor Pirate dar'd to come, 

And thence had borne his own, his only child. 

Mate all unfit for Maritorne the wild; 

And when the maiden curs'd him in her breast 

Those curses came not o'er him — he was blest — 

For but to gaze upon her, and to feel 

That she whom he ador'd was near him still, 



230 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Was bliss! was Heav'n itself! and he whose eye 

Bent not to aught of dull mortality 

Shrunk with a tremulous delight whene'er 

The voice of Laura rose upon his ear; 

That voice had pow'r to quell the fiend within, 

Whose touch had turn'd his very soul to sin. 

That fiend was vengeance; — e'en his virtues bow'd 

Before the altar which to vengeance glow'd. 

His virtues? yes; for even fiends may boast 

A shadow of the glory they have lost, — 

But oh! like them, his crimes were dark and deep, 

For vengeance was awake, — can vengeance sleep? 

Yes; sleep, as tigers sleep, with half shut eye, 

Crouching to spring upon the passer by. 

With parch'd tongue cleaving to its blacken'd cell. 

Stifling with thirst, and jaws which hunger fell 

Hath sharply whetted, quiv'ring to devour 

The reckless wretch abandon'd to his pow'r. 

Yes: thus may vengeance sleep in breast like his. 

Where thoughts of wild revenge are thoughts of bliss. 

Thus may it sleep, like Etna's burning breast. 

To burst in thunders when 'tis dreaded least; 

For his had been the joyless, thankless part, 

Of one who warm'd a viper at his heart. 

And clasp'd the venom'd reptile to his breast 

Till wounded by the ingrate he caress'd. 

Such had been Maritorne's accursed fate 

Ere he became the harden'd child of hate. 

At first his breast was torn with anguish wild, 

He curs'd himself, then bitterly revil'd 



POETICAL REMAINS. 231 

The world, as hollow-hearted, false, unkind; 

He curs'd himself, and doubly curs'd mankind; 

And then his heart grew callous, and like steel 

Grasp'd in his hand, had equal power to feel. 

^Twas like yon mountain snow crest, chill tho' bright. 

Cold to the touch, but dazzling to the sight. 

Till when the hour of darkness gathers, then 

The sunbeam fades, the ice grows dim again. 

He had a friend, one on whom fancy's eye 

Had deeply, rashly stamp'd fidelity: 

Traitor had better seem'd — worm— viper — aught — 

The vilest, veriest wretch e'er named in thought. 

For he was sin's own son, and all that e'er 

Angels above may hate or mortals fear. 

There was a fascination in his eye 

Which those who felt, might seek in vain to fly. 

There was blasting glance of mockery there. 

There was a calm, contemptuous, biting sneer 

For ever on his lip, which made men fear. 

And fearing shun him, as a bird will shun 

A gilded bait, tho' glittering in the sun; 

But still the mask of friendship he could wear, 

The smile, the warm professions all were there; 

Let him who trusts to these alone— beware! 

A lurking devil may be crouching there. 

Shame on mankind that they will stoop to use 

Wiles which the imps of darkness would refuse. 

Henceforth let friendship drop her robes of light. 

And following desolation's blasting flight 

^ * * * * • * 



232 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

There pac'd the Pirate Chief with giant stride, 

Deep chorus keeping to the Mexic tide; 

His sable pkimes were hov'ring o'er his brow, 

As if to hide the depth of thought below. 

He paiis'd — 'twas but the dashing of the spray — 

Again! — 'twas but the night-watch on his way. 

He only mutter'd, gnash'd his teeth and smil'd, 

Fit mirth were that, so ghastly and so wild. 

To grace a Pirate Chieftain's scornful lip, 

'Twas like St. Helmo's night-fire o'er the deep. 

The beacon blaze is burning on the shore, 

But burns it not more dimly than before? 

Perchance the drowzy sentinel is sleeping. 

His weary vigils negligently keeping. 

So thought the Chief, but still his wary eye 

Was fix'd intently between earth and sky, 

As if its quick keen glance would light the flame. 

And blast the sleeper with remorse and shame. 

He starts — suspicion flashes on his brain — 

He grasps his dagger — by St. Mark — again! 

His bugle brightly glitter'd on his breast; 

His lip the gilded bauble gently press'd — 

One breath, one sigh, and rock and hill and sea, 

Will echo back the warlike minstrelsy. 

The figure which had slowly pass'd between 

Himself and yonder blaze, sank where 'twas seen, 

As tho' the earth had gaped with sudden yawn. 

And drank both fire and form in silence down; 

The beacon was extinguish'd, rock and tree 

And beetling clifl", and wildly foaming sea 



POETICAL REMAINS. 233 

Were hid in darkness, for the deep red hght 
Which faintly sketched them on the brow of night 
Was dim, as was the moon's pale tremulous glow, 
For tempest- clouds were rallying round her brow; 



The sound of a footstep is on the shore, 

It dies away in the surge^s roar; 

It is heard again as the angry spray 

Rolls back and foams its shame away; 

And shrill and clear was the call of alarm, 

'Twas like the breaking of spell or charm; 

It scream'd o'er the dark wave, it rose to the hill, 

And the answering echoes re-echoed it still. 

A rushing sound as of coming waves, 

A glittering band as if burst from their graves, 

Are the ansv/ers which wake at the bidding clear 

Of him, the Lord of the Isle of Fear. 

But scarce had the summons in silence died 

When the foot which had waked the tumult wide. 

Was pressing the sand where it yielding gave 

To the lightest tread as 'twas washed by the wave; 

By the side of the Pirate, with outstretch'd hand, 

The bold intruder look'd round on the band; 

But none saw the face of that being save he; 

In wonder he gaz'd — in his eye you might see 

Surprise, and shame, and a fiend-hke gleam. 

Which whisper'd of more than fear might dream; 

And is it for this — for a woman like thee? 

He angrily mutter'd and turn'd to the sea — 



234 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

And is it for this I have sounded the call 

Whose notes may never unansvver'd fall; 

Whose lowest tone is the knell of more 

Than can crowd at once upon Hell's broad shore? 

And is it for this, I must idly stand 

To trace the wave with my sword on the strand? 

Speak! — tell me — or now by the blood on its blade, 

I will give to that pale cheek a deadlier shade. 

The beacon! the beacon — she turn'd to the spot, 

And pointed the chief where the light was not; 

The murmur ran thro' the waiting crowd, 

It was loud at first but it grew more loud. 

Till the Beacon, the Beacon — rang on to the sky, 

But its light was extinguish'd, no blaze met the eye; 

Thus much for the moment — thy honour is clear. 

If it suffers then look for thy recompense here; 

And she threw back her mantle and gave to the light 

Which glared from the torches all flamingly bright 

A form which e'en Maritorne mark'd not unmov'd, 

But 'twas one which he did not, nor ever had lov'd. 

There are spies who are waiting in ambush for thee; 

I mark'd out the cavern — 'twas near to the sea; 

They are few, they are bold, they are guided by one 

Who has sworn e'er the dawn of another day's sun 

To lead thee in triumph, unwounded, unharm'd, 

To yonder proud city all chain'd and unarm'd; 

This swears he, by all that is sacred to do, 

I heard it, and hasten'd thus breathless to you. 

For pardon 1 sue not, punish my crime! 

Here, here is my bosom, and now is the time! — 



POETICAL REMAINS. 235 

The last moment beheld me imploring for breath, 
Now 'tis not worth asking — I sue but for death. 
The ocean was roaring too loudly to hear 
The words she was speaking, the Chief bent his ear; 
His dark plume was resting half fearfully there, 
Upon the white brow of the beautiful Clare; 
As a being all guilty and trembling would rest 
Self-accused, self-condemn'd in the land of the blest. 
And he, its wild wearer, how heard he the tale? . 
His eye flashM the darker, his lip grew more pale; 
But when it was finish'd and Clara knelt down, 
Where, where was his anger, and where was his 

frown? 
On her forehead he printed a passionate kiss — 
Oh Clara forgive me — remember not this. 
But forget not that thou, and thou only, shalt know 
The cause of my madness, my guilt, and my wo. 
If I fall, thou wilt read it in letters of blood 
'Neath the stone, near the rock, where the beacon-light 

glow'd; 
If I live — and he hastily bowed himself — then — 
The Fiend and the pirate were masters again. 

^ ^ ^ ^ * ^ 

7^ 71* *i^ y^ 7f& y^ 

A light is on the waters, and the dip 

Of distant oars is heard from steep to steep; 

The hum of voices float upon the air. 

Soft, yet distinct, tho' distant, full and clear. 

Come they to Barritaria's Isle as midnight foes? 

'Tis well!— the world but roughly with them goes. 



236 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Come they to Barritaria's Isle to join 
Their traitor arms, proud Maritorne, with thine? 
Oh, better had they never left yon shore, 
To which they may return again no more. 
Fools! — think they he is bleeding in a strife 
Where every drop writes guilt upon his life 
For gold, for fame, for power, for aught on earth 
Which vulgar minds might think were richly worth 
A life of bloodshed and dishonour? No! 
They read not right, who read yon pirate so; 
The plash of troubled waters, and the sound 
Of moving vessels grating o'er the ground. 
The quick low hum of voices, the faint gush 
Of light waves gurgling as with sudden rush 
They feebly kiss'd the bark, then sunk away. 
As half repenting them such welcome gay. 
Were caught perchance, by some lone fisher's ear, 
Who plied his line, or net at midnight here; 
Perhaps he started from his drowsy mood 
And toss'd his bait still further down the flood; 
But be that as it may, 'twas heard no more, 
And list'ning silence hover'd o'er the shore. 
And yonder fire the battle sign is beaming. 
Far o'er the dusky waters redly streaming. 
The shadow of the Pirate-ship lies there. 
Its banners feebly dancing in the air; 
Its broad sails veering idly to and fro, 
Now glitt'ring 'nealh the full moon's silver glow. 
Now black'ning in the shade of night's dull frown, 
'Twas like its chief, in silence and alone. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 237 

Gazing upon the shadow which it cast 

O'er ev'ry rippling wave which gently passM., 

And such had been his joyless, glooniy lot, 

Forgetting all mankind, by all forgot. 

Save that accursed one whose blasting eye 

Was glaring on him, — 'twas in vain to fly 

While vengeance whisper'd curses in his ear, 

And thought, the demon thought receiv'd them there. 

But it had ever been his lot to throw 

O'er those who pass'd him, shades of gloom and woe^ 

His love for Laura had been deeply curs'd. 

Hatred's black phial o'er his brow had burst; 

He felt himself detested, and he knew 

That she whom he adored abhorr'd him too. 

But oh the hapless, the ill-fated one, 

She who could love him for himself alone. 

Love him, with all his crimes upon his head, 

Love, when the crowd with detestation fled; — 

A deep dark shade, a wild, a with'ring blast 

Fell o'er her destiny; the die was cast — 

She was a wretched one, a sweet flower faded. 

Whose wand'ring tendrils round the nightshade 

braided. 
Clung to its baleful breast— hung drooping there 
Self sacrificed, it drank the poisoned air 
And with'ring *********** 

[ Unfinished.'] 



238 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



AMERICA. 

("Written in her seventeenth year.) 

And this was once the realm of nature, where 

Wild as the wind, tho' exquisitely fair. 

She breath'd the mountain breeze, or bow'd to kiss 

The dimpling waters with unbounded bliss. 

Here in this Paradise of earth, where first 

Wild mountain liberty began to burst. 

Once Nature's temple rose in simple grace, 

The hill her throne, the world her dwelling place. 

And where are now her lakes so still and lone, 

Her thousand streams with bending shrubs o'ergrown? 

Where her dark cat'racts tumbling from on high, 

With rainbow arch aspiring to the sky? 

Her tow'ring pines with fadeless wreaths entwin'd, 

Her waving alders streaming to the wind? 

Nor these alone, — her own, — her fav'rite child. 

All fire; all feeling; man untaught and wild; 

Where can the lost, lone son of nature stray? 

For art's high car is rolling on its way; 

A wanderer of the world, he flies to drown 

The thoughts of days gone by and pleasures flown, 

In the deep draught, whose dregs are death and woe, 

With slavery's iron chain conceal'd below. 

Once thro' the tangled wood, with noiseless tread 

And throbbing heart, the lurking warrior sped. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 339 

Aim'd his sure weapon, won the prize, and turn'd 
While his high heart with wild ambition burn'd, 
With song and war-whoop to his native tree, 
There on its bark to carve the victory. 
His all of learning did that act comprise, 
But still in nature's volume doubly wise. 

The wayward stream which once with idle bound, 
Whirl'd on resistless in its foaming round. 
Now curb'd by art flows on, a wat'ry chain 
Linking the snow-capp'd mountains to the main. 
Where once the alder in luxuriance grew. 
Or the tall pine its tow'ring branches threw 
Abroad to Heav'n, with dark and haughty brow, 
There mark the realms of plenty smiling now; 
There the full sheaf of Ceres richly glows. 
And Plenty's fountain blesses as it flows; 
And man, a brute when left to wander wild, 
A reckless creature, nature's lawless child. 
What boundless streams of knowledge rolling now, 
From the full hand of art around him flow ! 
Improvement strides the surge, while from afar, 
Learning rolls onward in her silver car; 
Freedom unfurls her banner o'er his head. 
While peace sleeps sweetly on her native bed. 

The muse arises from the wildwood glen, 
And chants her sweet and hallow'd song again, 
As in those Halcyon days, which bards have sung, 
When hope was blushing, and when life was young. 



240 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Thus shall she rise, and thus her sons shall rear 
Her sacred temple here, and only Acre, 
While Percival, her lov'd and chosen priest, 
For ever blessing, tho' himself unblest. 
Shall fan the fire that blazes at her shrine, 
And charm the ear with numbers half divine. 



LINES ADDRESSED TO A COUSIN. 

She gave me a flow'ret, — and oh! it was sweet! 
^Twas a pea, in full bloom, with its dark crimson 
leaf. 
And I said in my heart, this shall be thy retreat! 
'Tis one " sacred to Friendship" — a stranger to 
grief. 

In my bosom I plac'd it, — 'tis withered and gone! 

All its freshness, its beauty, its fragrance has fled! 
And in sorrow I sigh'd, — am I thus left alone? 

Is the gift which I cherish'd quite faded and dead? 

It has wither'd! but she who presented it blooms, 

Still fresh and unfading, in memory here! 
And through life shall here flourish, 'mid danger and 
storms. 
As sweet as the flower, though more lasting and 
fair ! 



POETICAL REMAINS. 241 



MODESTY. 

(Written in her sixteenth year.) 

There is a sweet, tho' humble flower, 
Which grows in nature's wildest bed; 

It blossoms in the lonely bower. 
But withers 'neath the gazer's tread. 

'Tis rear'd alone, far, far away 
From the wild noxious weeds of death, 

Around its brow the sunbeams play. 
The evening dew-drop is its wreath. 

'Tis Modesty; 'tis nature's child; 

The loveliest, sweetest, meekest flower 
That ever blossom'd in the wild, 

Or trembled 'neath the evening shower. 

'Tis Modesty; so pure, so fair, 

That woman's witch'ries lovelier grow, 
When that sweet flower is blooming there. 

The brightest beauty of her brow. 



16 



242 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



A VIEW OF DEATH. 

When bending o'er the brink of life, 
My trembling soul shall stand, 

Waiting to pass death's awful flood, 
Great God! at thy command; 

When weeping friends surround my bed, 

To close my sightless eyes, 
When shattered by the weight of years 

This broken body lies; « 

When every long lov'd scene of life 

Stands ready to depart, 
When the last sigh which shakes this frame 

Shall rend this bursting heart; 

Oh thou great source of joy supreme, 

Whose arm alone can save. 
Dispel the darkness that surrounds 

The entrance to the grave. 

Lay thy supporting gentle hand 

Beneath my sinking head. 
And with a ray of love divine, 

Illume my dying bed. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 243 

Leaning on thy dear faithful breast, 

I would resign my breath, 
And in thy loved embraces lose 

The bitterness of death. 



ROB ROY'S REPLY TO FRANCIS OSBALDIS- 

TONE. 

The heather I trod while breathing on earth, 
Must bloom o'er my grave in the land of my birth; 
My warm heart would shrink like the fern in the 

frost, 
If the tops of my hills to my dim eyes were lost. 



^44 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



TO A LADY 

RECOVERING FROM SICKNESS. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

There is a charm in the pallid cheek; 
A charm which the tongue can never speak, 
When the hand of sickness has wither'd awhile, 
The rose which had bloom'd in the rays of a smile. 

There is a charm in the heavy eye. 
When the tear of sorrow is passing by, 
Like a summer shower o'er yon vault of blue, 
Or the violet trembling 'neath drops of dew. 

It spreads around a shade as light 
As daylight blending with the night; 
Or 'tis like the tints of an evening sky, 
And soft as the breathing of sorrow's sigh. 



\ 



POETICAL REMAINS. 245 



THE VISION. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

'TwAS evening — all was calm and silent, save 
The low hoarse dashing of the distant wave; 
The whip-poor-will had clos'd his pensive lay, 
Which sweetly mourned the sun's declining ray; 
Tired of a world surcharged with pain and wo, 
Weary of heartless forms and all below, 
Broken each tie, bereft of every friend, 
Whose sympathy might consolation lend. 
And musing mi each vain and earthly toy, 
Walk'd the once gay and still brave Oleroy. 
Thus lost in thought, unconsciously he stray'd. 
When a dark forest wild around him laid. 
In vain he tried the beaten path to gain. 
He sought it earnestly, but sought in vain; 
At length o'ercome, he sunk upon the ground. 
Where the dark ivy twin'd its branches round; 
Sudden there rose upon his wondering ear. 
Notes which e'en angels might delighted hear. 
Now low they murmur, now majestic rise, 
As though " some spirit banished from the skies" 
Had there repair'd to tune the mournful lay, 
" And chase the sorrows of his soul away." 
They ceas'd — when lo! a brilliant dazzling light 
Illumed the wood and chas'd the shades of night; 



246 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

He raised his head, there stood near Oleroy, 

The beauteous figure of a smiling boy; 

Across his shoulder hung an ivory horn, 

With jewels glittering like the rays of morn; 

In his white hand he held the tuneful lyre, 

And in his eyes there beam'd a heav'nly fire; 

Approaching Oleroy, he smiling cried, 
You hate the world and all its charms deride, 
You hate the world and all it doth contain. 
Condemn each joy, and call each pleasure pain; 
Then come, he sweetly cried, come follow me. 
Another world thy sorrowing eyes shall see. 

No sooner said than swift the smiling boy 
Led from the bower the wond'ring Oleroy. 
Beneath a tree three sylph-like forms recline. 
Each form was beauteous, and each face benign; 
Beside them stood a chariot dazzling bright, 
Yok'd with two beauteous swans of purest white; 
They mount the chariot, and ascend on high. 
They bend the lash, on winged winds they fly, 
Above the spacious globe they stretch their flight, 
That globe seem'd now but as a cloud of night. 
Swift towards the moon the white swans bend their 

way. 
And a new world its treasures doth display. 
They halt; — before them rocks and hills are spread. 
And birds, and beasts, which at their footsteps fled. 
Another moon emits a softer ray. 
And other moon-beams on the waters play: 



POETICAL REMAINS. 247 

They wander on, and reach a darksome cave 

Against whose side loud roars the dashing wave: 

These words upon its rugged front appear, 

" What in your world is lost is treasured here." 

They enter; — round upon the floor are strewn, 

The ivory sceptre, and the glittering crown; 

Unnumbered hopes there flutter'd on the wing, 

There were the lays discarded lovers sing; 

There fame her trumpet blew, long, loud, and clear, 

Worlds tremble as the deaf'ning notes they hear; 

There brooded riches o'er his lifeless heap. 

There were the tears which misery's children weep. 

There were posthumous alms, and misspent time 

Lost in a jingling mass of foolish rhyme. 

There was the conscience of the miser; — there 

The tears of love, — the pity of the fair; 

There, pointing, cried the sylph-like smiling boy. 

There's the content which fled you, Oleroyl 

Regain it if you can; — then far away. 

And reach your world before the dawn of day. 



24S LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



ON SEEING AT A CONCERT, THE PUBLIC 
PERFORMANCE OF A FEMALE DWARF. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

Helpless, unprotected, weary, 

TossM upon the world's wide sea, 

Borne from those I love most dearly. 
Say — dost thou not feel for me? 

Who that hath shrunk 'neath nature's frown 
Would court false fortune's fickle smile? 

Oh, who would wander thus alone, 
Reckless alike of care or toil? 

Who would, for fading pleasure, brave 
The sea of troubles, dark and deep? 

For lo! the gems which deck the wave 
Vanish, and "leave the wretch to weep." 

*Twas not for fortune's smile of light, 

Which beams but to destroy forever; 
Twas not for pleasure's bubbles bright, 
Which dazzle still, deluding ever: 

Oft have I falter'd when alone 
Before the crowd I sung my lay. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 249 

But ah, a father's feeble moan 
Rung in my ears, I dared not stay. 

Oh, I have borne pride's scornful look. 
And burning taunts from slander's tongue; 

Yet more of malice I could brook. 
E'en though my heart with grief was wrung. 

Adieu; a long — a last adieu — 

Once more I launch upon life's sea; 

But still shall memory turn to you, 
For, stranger, you have felt for me. 



ON SEEING A YOUNG LADY AT HER 
DEVOTIONS. 

(Written in her seventeenth year.) 

She knelt, and her dark blue eye was rais'd, 

A sacred fire in its bright beam blaz'd, 

And it spread o'er her cold pale cheek a light 

So pure, so sacred, so clear and so bright. 

That Parian marble, tho' glittering fair 

^Neath the moon's pale beam, or the sun's broad glare. 

Were far less sweet, tho' more dazzlingly bright, 

Than that cold cheek array'd in its halo of light. 



250 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Oh! I love not the dark rosy hue of the sky- 
When the bright blush of morn mantles deeply and 

high, 
But my fond soul adores the pure author of light. 
The more when she looks on the broad brow of night; 
On myriads of stars glitt'ring far thro' the sky. 
Like the bright eyes of saints looking down from on 

high 
From their garden of Paradise, blooming in Heaven, 
On the scene sleeping sweet 'neath the calm smile of 

even. 

I love not the cheek which speaks slumber unbroken, 
That heart hath ne'er sigh'd o'er hope's fast fading 

token; 
That bosom ne'er throbbed with half fearful delight 
When it thought on its home in the regions of light. 
Or trembled and wept as with fancy's dear eye 
It gaz'd on the beautiful gates of the sky. 
And the angels which watch at their portals of light 
All peaceful, all sacred, all pure, and all bright; 
But I love that pale cheek as it bends in devotion, 
Like a star sinking down on the breast of the ocean. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 251 



ALONZO AND IMANEL. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

As he spoke, he beheld on the sea-beaten strand 

A form, 'twas so airy, so light, 
He could almost have sworn by the faith of his land, 
That an angel was wand'ring 'mid rocks and thro' 
sand, 

'Neath the moon-beam so fitfully bright. 

He paus'd, as the bittern scream'd loud o'er his head, 

One moment he paus'd on the shore. 
To mark the wild wave as it dash'd from its bed. 
Tossing high the white spray from its foam spangled 
head. 

With a fitful and deafening roar. 

He caught the wild notes of a song, on the wind, 

Ere the tempest-god bore them away. 
And they told of a tortured and desperate mind, 
To despair's dark shadows for ever resign'd, 
Of a heart, once hope lighted and gay. 

The bright moon was hid in the breast of the storm, 

And darkness and terror drew round. 
Yet still he could mark her light fanciful form, 



252 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

As she roam'd round the wild rocks, devoid of alarm, 
Tho' the fiend of the whirlwind frown'd. 

Oh tell me, he cried, what spirit so light, 

So beautiful e'en in despair. 
Is wand'ring alone 'mid the storm of the night. 
When to guide her no star in the heaven is bright, 

No gleam save the lightning's red glare! 

'Tis young Imanel, answered his guide with a sigh. 

The rich, the belov'd and the gay, 
Who is doom'd from her friends and her country to fly. 
For she lov'd, and she wedded Alonzo the spy, 

Who has left her and fled far away. 

Alonzo the spy! — and he darted away 

With the speed of a shooting star. 
Nor heeded the call of his guide to stay. 
But toward the poor lone one he bounded away, 

She had fled to the sea-beach afar. 

One glance of the forked lightning's glare 
Play'd bright round the fair one's face, 
And it beam'd on Alonzo, for he was there. 
And it beam'd on his bride, on his Imanel dear, 
Clasp'd at length in his joyful embrace. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 253 



TO MARGARET'S EYE. 

("Wiitten in her fifteenth year.) 

Oh! I have seen the blush of morn, 
And T have seen the evening sky; 

But ah! they faded when I gaz'd 

On the bright heaven of Margaret's eye. 

I've seen the Queen of evening ride 
Majestic, 'mid the clouds on high; 

But e'en Diana in her pride 
Was dim^ near Margaret's brilliant eye. 

I've seen the azure vault of heaven, 
I've seen the star-bespangled sky; 

But oh! I would the whole have given 
For one sweet glance from Margaret's eye. 

I've seen the dew upon the rose. 
It trembled 'neath the zephyr's sigh; 

But oh ! the tear which nature shed 
Was dim near that in Margaret's eye. 



254: LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



TO A YOUNG LADY 

WHOSE MOTHER WAS INSANE FROM HER BIRTH. 

(Written in her seventeenth year.) 

And thou hast never, never known 
A mother's love, a mother's care! 

Hast wept, and sigh'd, and smil'd alone, 
Unblest by e'en a mother's prayer. 

Oh, if sad sorrow's blighting hand 

Hath e'er an arrow, it is this; 
To feel that phrenzy's burning brand 

Hath wip'd away a mother's kiss; 

To mark the gulf, the starless wave. 
Which rolls between thee and her love, 

To feel that better were a grave, 
A grave beneath — a home above; 

Than thus that she should linger on, 

In dreamless, sunless solitude; 
Like some bright ruin'd shrine, where one 

All loveliness and truth hath stood. 

And he, her love, her life, her light, 
How burst the storm o'er him! 



POETICAL REMAINS. 255 

Oh, darker than Egyptian night, 
^Twas one wild troubled dream! 

To gaze upon that eye, whose beam 

Was love, and life, and light, 
To mark its wild and wandering gleam 

Which dazzles but to blight; 

To turn in anguish and despair 
From those wild notes of sadness. 

And feel that there was darkness there, 
The midnight mist of madness; 

To start beneath the thrilling swell 

Of notes still sweet, tho' wasted, 
To mark the idol lov'd too well. 

In all its beauty blasted; 

Oh! it were better far to kneel. 

In darkly brooding anguish, 
Upon the graves of those we love, 

Than thus to see them languish. 



256 LUCRETIA MARTA DAVIDSON. 



A SONG. 
Tune, Mrs. Robinson^s Farewell. 

CWritten in her thirteenth year.) 

Tell me not of joys departed, 
Or of childhood's happy hour! 

When unconsciously I sported, 
Fresh as morning's dewy flower! 

Tell me not of fair hopes blasted. 

Or of unrequited love ! 
Tell me not of fortune wasted. 

Or the web which Fate hath wove ! 

One fond wish I long have cherish'd, 
I have twined it round my heart! 

While all other hopes have perish'd 
I with that could never part. 

On life's troubled, stormy ocean 
That bright star still shone serene! 

To that star, my heart's devotion 
Rose, at morning, and at e'en! 

And the hope that led me onward, 
Like a beacon shining bright. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 257 

Was — that when this form had moulder'd 
I might wake to realms of light! 

Wake to bliss — that changes never! 

Wake no more to hope or fear! 
Wake to joys that bloom for ever! 

Wither'd by no sigh, no tear! 



A SONG. 

CWritten in her fifteenth year.) 

Life is but a troubled ocean, 

Hope a meteor, love a flower 
Which blossoms in the morning beam, 

And withers with the evening hour. 

Ambition is a dizzy height, 

And glory, but a lightning gleam; 

Fame is a bubble, dazzling bright. 
Which fairest shines in fortune's beam. 

When clouds and darkness veil the skies. 
And sorrow's blast blows loud and chill. 

Friendship shall like a rainbow rise. 
And softly whisper — peace, be still. 



17 



258 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



TWILIGHT. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

How sweet the hour when daylight blends 

With the pensive shadows on evening's breast; 

And dear to the heart is the pleasure it lends, 
For 'tis like the departure of saints to their rest. 

Oh, 'tis sweet, Saranac, on thy loved banks to stray, 
To watch the last day-beam dance light on thy 
wave, 

To mark the white skiff as it skims o'er the bay. 
Or heedlessly bounds o'er the warrior's grave. 

Oh, 'tis sweet to a heart unentangled and light. 
When with hope's brilliant prospects the fancy is 
blest, 

To pause 'mid its day-dreams so witchingly bright. 
And mark the last sunbeams, while sinking to rest. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 259 



FRAGMENT. 

("Written in her twelfth year.) 

With snow-clad top, and far projecting height, 
Yon mist-wrapp'd mountain rises on my sightj 
There fancy's pencil draws a world unseen, 
Forever smiling, and for ever green; 
Fills it with beings pure from sin's black stain. 
Where faith, hope, charity, and friendship reign. 
There forests waving, fiU'd with songsters sweet. 
The ear with wild and warbling music greet; 
There purling rills in soft meanders glide. 
There no rough cataract whirls its foaming tide; 
Life's little bark there man in safety steers. 
And passions dark'ning storms he never fears. 



260 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



ON THE DEATH OF QUEEN CAROLINE. 

CWritten in her twelfth year.) 

Star of England! Brunswick's pride! 

Thou hast suffer'd, droop'd, and died! 

Adversity, with piercing eye, 

Bade all her arrows round thee fly; 

She marked thee from thy cradle-bed, 

And plaited thorns around thy head! — 

As the moon, whom sable clouds 

Now brightly shows — now darkly shrouds — 

So envy, with a serpent's eye, 

And slander's tongue of blackest dye, 

On thy pure name aspersions cast. 

And triumph'd o'er thy fame at last! 

But each dark tale of guilt and shame 

Shall darker fly to whence it came! 

A stranger in a foreign land, 

Oppress'd beneath a tyrant's hand, 

She drank the bitter cup of wo. 

And read Fate's black'ning volume through! 

The last, the bitterest drop was drank. 

The volume closed — and all was blank! 



POETICAL REMAINS. 35 1 



ON THE 
DEATH OF THE BEAUTIFUL MRS. **^«* 

I saw her when life's tide was high, 

When youth was hov'ring o'er her brow, 

When joy was dancing in her eye. 

And her cheek blush'd hope's crimson glow. 

I saw her 'mid a fairy throng, 

She seem'd the gayest of the gay; 
I saw her lightly glide along, 

'Neath beauty's smile, and pleasure's lay. 

I saw her in her bridal robe. 

The blush of joy was mounting high; 

I mark'd her bosom's heaving throb, 
I mark'd her dark and downcast eye. 

I saw her when a mother's love, 
Ask'd at her hand a mother's care; 

She look'd an angel from above, 
Hov'ring round a cherub fair. 

I saw her not till cold and pale. 
She slumber'd on death's icy arm; 

The rose had faded on her cheek. 
Her lip had lost its power to charm. 



262 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

That eye was dim which brightly shone; 

That brow was cold, that heart was still; 
The witch'ries of that form had flown; 

The lifeless clay had ceas'd to feel. 

I saw her wedded to the grave; 

Her bridal robes were weeds of death; 
And o'er her pale, cold brow, was hung 

The damp sepulchral icy wreath. 



THE WHITE MAID OF THE ROCK. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

Loud 'gainst the rocks the wild spray is dashing, 
Its snowy white foam o'er the waves rudely splash- 
ing; 
The woods echo round to the bittern's shrill scream, 
As he dips his black wing in the wave of the stream; 
Now mournful and sad the low murmuring breeze 
Sighs lonely and dismal through hollow oak trees. 
The owl loudly hoots, while his lonely abode 
Serves to shelter the snake and the poisonous toad; 
Lo! the black thunder cloud is spread over the skies, 
And the swift-winged lightning at intervals flies. 
The streamlet looks dark, and the spray wilder breaks, 
And the alder leaf dank, with its silver drops shakes; 



POETICAL REJMAINS. 263 

This dell and these rocks, this lone alder and stream, 
With the dew-drops which dance in the moon's silver 

beam. 
Are sacred to beings etherial and light. 
Who hold their dark orgies alone and at night. 
Wild, and more wild, dashed the waves of the stream, 
The White Maid of the rock gave a shrill piercing 

scream; 
Down headlong she plunged 'neath the dark rolling 

wave. 
And rising, thus chanted a dirge to the brave. 
"The raven croaks loud from her nest in the rock. 
The night-owl's shrill hooting resounds from the oak; 
Behold the retreat where brave Avenel is laid, 
Uncoffin'd, except by his own Scottish plaid! 
Long since l}as my girdle diminished to naught, 
And the great house of Avenel low has been brought; 
The star now burns dimly which once brightly shone, 
And proud Avenel's glory for ever has flown. 
As I sail'd and my white garments caught in the 

brake, 
'Neath the oak, whose huge branches extend o'er the 

lake, 
* Wo to thee! wo to thee! Maid of the Rock,' 
Cried the night-raven who builds in the oak; 
*Wo to thee! guardian spirit of Avenel! 
Where are thy holly-bush, streamlet and dell? 
No longer thou sittest to watch and to weep, 
Near the abbey's lone walls, and its turrets so steep! 
Wo to thee! — wo to thee! Maid of the Rock,' 
Cried the night-raven who builds in the oak! 



264 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Then farewell, great Av'nel, thy proud race is rim! 
The girdle has vanish'd — my task is now done." 
Then her long flowing tresses around her she drew. 
And her form 'neath the wave of the dark streamlet 
threw. 



THE WEE FLOWER OF THE HEATHER. 

(Written in her fourteenth year.) 

Thou pretty wee flower, humble thing, 
Thou brightest jewel of the heath, 

Which waves at zephyr's lightest wing. 
And trembles at the softest breath; 

Thou lovely bud of Scotia's land, 
Thou pretty fragrant biirnie gem, 

By whisp'ring breezes ihou art fann'd, 
And greenest leaves entwine thy stem. 

No raging tempest beats thee down, 

Or finds thee in thy safe retreat; 
By no rough win'try winds thou'rt blown, 

Safe seated at the dark rock's feet. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 265 



TO MY DEAR MOTHER IN SICKNESS. 

Hang not thy harp upon the willow, 

Mourn not a brighter, happier day. 
But touch the chord, and life's wild billow 

Will shrinking foam its shame away. 

Then strike the chord and raise the strain 
Which brightens that dark clouded brow; 

Oh! beam one sunshine smile again. 
And I'll forgive thy sadness now. 

Tho' darkness, gloom, and doubt surround thee. 
Thy bark, tho' frail, shall safely ride; 

The storm and whirlwind may rage round thee, 
But thou wilt all their wrath abide. 

Hang not thy harp upon the willow 
Which weeps o'er every passing wave; 

Tho' life is but a restless pillow. 

There's calm and peace beyond the grave. 



266 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



AN ACROSTIC. 

CWritten in her eleventh yeaur.) 
THE MOON. 

Lo! yonder rides the empress of the night! 
Unveil'd she casts around her silver Hght; 
Cease not, fair orb, thy slow majestic march, 
Resume again thy seat in yon bkie arch. 
E'en noiVj as weary of the tedious way, 
Thy head on ocean's bosom thou dost lay; 
In his blue waves thou hid'st thy shining face, 
And gloomy darkness takes its vacant place. 

THE SUN. 
[in continuation.] 

Darting his rays the sun now glorious rides, 
And from his path fell darkness quick divides; 
Vapour dissolves and shrinks at his approach, 
It dares not on his blazing path encroach; 
Down droops the flow'ret, — and his burning ray 
Scorches the workmen o'er the new-mown hay. 
Oh! lamp of Heav'n, pursue thy glorious course. 
Nor till gray twilight, aught abate thy force. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 267 



HABAKKUK III, 6. 

(Written in her fifteenth year.) 

When Cushan was mourning in solitude drear, 
When the curtains of Midian trembled with fear. 
On the wings of salvation thy chariot did fly, 
Thou didst stride the wide whirlwind and come from 
on high. 

Earth shook, and before thee the mountains did bow; 
The voice of the deep thunder'd loud from below; 
Thy arrows glanc'd bright as they shot thro' the air. 
And far gleam'd the light of thy glittering spear; 
The bright orb of day paus'd in wonder on high. 
And the lamp of the night stood still in the sky. 



268 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



ON READING A FRAGMENT CALLED THE 
FLOWER OF THE FOREST. 

(Written in her fourteenth year.) 

Sing on, sweetest songster the woodland can boast; 
Sing on, for it charms, tho' it sorrows my breast; 
The strains, tho' so mournful, shall never be lost 
Till this throbbing bosom has murmur'd to rest. 

The sweet Flower of the Forest on memory's page 
Shall bloom undecaying while life lingers near, 
Unhurt by the storms which around it shall rage. 
By sorrow's sigh fanii'd, and bedew 'd by a tear. 



PQ^ICAL REMAINS. 269 



Z ANTE, 



(Written in her seventeenth year.) 



She stood alone, ^twas in that hour of thought, 
When days gone by, with fading fancies fraught 
Steal o'er the soul, and bear it back awhile, 
Too sad, too heavy, or to weep or smile 
O'er all life's sad variety of wo, 
Which fades the cheek, and stamps upon the brow 
The deep dark traces of its passage there. 
In all the clouded majesty of care. 
That hour was twilight; and the shade of night. 
Which shuts the world and wickedness from sight, 
Was walking o'er the waters, while its train 
Of glitt'ring millions danced along the main. 
And Zante, that fairy island fading fast, 
Seem'd first but faintly shadow'd, till at last 
Tower, minaret, and turret, dimm'd by night. 
Shone darkly grand, beneath Heav'ns silvery light. 

And where was she, the lone one, for the sky 
Had blush'd, then faded slowly to her eye — 
Had deepen'd into darkness, till at last 
Night's deep, broad pinion had before her pass'd; 
And still she linger'd there, as noting not 
The lonely breathlessness of that sad spot; 
As heeding not the hour, the dreary sky. 
Or aught that lay beneath her moveless eye. 



270 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

She was a being form'd to love, and blest 
With lavish Nature's richest loveliness. 
Oh! I have often seen, in fancy's eye, 
Beings too bright for dull mortality. 
I've seen them in the visions of the night, 
I've faintly seen them, when enough of light 
And dim distinctness gave them to my gaze, 
As forms of other worlds, or brighter days. 

Such was lanthe, though perhaps less bright. 
Less clearly bright, for mystery and night 
Hung o'er her — she e'en lovelier seem'd. 
More calm, more happy, when dim twilight gleam'd 
Athwart the wave, than when the rude bright sun, 
As though in mock'ry, o'er her sad brow shone. 
There was a temple, which had stood, where then 
lanthe stood, and old and learned men 
Mus'd o'er its ruins, marking here and there 
Some porch, some altar, or some fountain, where 
In other days, the towers of faith were raised, 
Where victims bled, or sacred censers blazed; 
There stood lanthe, leaning on a shrine 
Which rose half mournfully, from 'neath the vine, 
Which as in seeming mock'ry had o'ergrown 
And twin'd its tendrils round lis breast of stone; 
Around the ruin'd columns, shaft and step, 
In undistinguish'd masses mould'ring slept. 
And little dreaming of the years gone by. 
E'er tyrant time had hurl'd them from on high. 
The moon emerging from the cloud more bright 
The marble surface glitter'd in its light; 



POETICAL REMAINS. 271 

lanthe mark'd it— tears will sometimes steal, 

From hearts which have perchance long ceas'd to 

feel- 
She wept, and whether that cold trembling gleam 
Which shone upon the column, where the beam 
Fell on its brow, brought to her bleeding breast 
Those gusts of sorrow, grief, despair, distress, 
Or what it was I know not — but she wept 
O'er the wide ruin which around her slept; 
Then as if scorning * * * * 

* « * * * » * 

[ Unfinished.'] 



THE YELLOW FEVER. 

(Written in her sixteenth year.) 

The sky is pure, the clouds are light. 
The moonbeams glitter cold and bright; 
O'er the wide landscape breathes no sigh; 
The sea reflects the star-gemm'd sky, 
And every beam of Heav'ns broad brow 
Glows brightly on the world below. 
But ah! the wing of death is spread; 
I hear the midnight murd'rers tread; — 
I hear the Plague that walks at night, 
I mark its pestilential blight; 
I feel its hot and with'ring breath, 
It is the messenger of death!— 



272 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

And can a scene so pure and fair 
Slumber beneath a baleful air? 
And can the stealing form of death 
Here wither with its blighting breath? 
Yes; and the slumb'rer feels its power 
At midnight's dark and silent hour; 
He feels the wild fire thro' his brain; 
He wakes; his frame is rack'd with pain; 
His eye half closed; his lip is dark; 
The sword of death hath done his work; 
That sallow cheek, that fever'd lip, 
That eye which burns but cannot sleep, 
That black parch'd tongue, that raging brain, 
All mark the monarch's baleful reign! 

Oh! for one pure, one balmy breath. 
To cool the suff'rer's brow in death; 
Oh! for one wand'ring breeze of Heav'n; 
Oh that one moment's rest were giv'n! 
'Tis past; — and hush'd the victim's prayer; 
The spirit ivas — but is not there ! 



POETICAL REMAINS. 273 



KINDAR BURIAL SERVICE, 

VERSIFIED. 

We commend our brother to thee, oh earth! 
To thee he returns, from thee was his birth! 
Of thee was he form'd, he was nourished by thee; 
Take the body, oh earth! the spirit is free. 

Oh air! he once breathed thee, thro' thee he survived 
And in thee, and with thee, his pure spirit Uv'd; 
That spirit hath fled, and we yield him to thee; 
His ashes be spread, like his soul, far and free. 

Oh fire! we commit his dear reliques to thee. 
Thou emblem of purity, spotless and free; 
May his soul, Hke thy flames, bright and burning arise, 
To its mansion of bliss, in the star-spangled skies. 

Oh water! receive him; without thy kind aid 

He had parch'd 'neath the sunbeams or mournM in 

the shade; 
Then take of his body the share which is thine. 
For the spirit hath fled from its mouldering shrine. 



18 



274 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



THE GRAVE. 

There is a spot so still and dreary, 

It is a pillow to the weary; 

It is so solemn and so lone, 

That grief forgets to heave a groan. 

There life's storms can enter never; 
There 'tis dark and lonely ever; 
The mourner there shall seek repose, 
And there the wanderer's journey close. 



RUINS OF PALMYRA. 

(Written in her sixteenth year.) 

Palmyra, where art thou, all dreary and lone? 

The breath of thy fame, like the night-wind, hath 

flown; 
O'er thy temples, thy minarets, towers and halls, 
The dark veil of oblivion silently falls. 

The sands of the desert sweep by thee in pride. 
They curl round thy brow, like the foam of the tide, 
And soon like the mountain stream's wild-rolling wave. 
Will rush o'er, and wrap thee at once in thy grave. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 275 

Oh, where are the footsteps which once gaily flew 
O'er pavements, where now weep the foxglove and 

yew? 
Oh where are the voices which once gaily sung. 
While the lofty brow'd domes with melody rung? 

They are silent;— and naught breaks the chaos of 

death; 
Not a being now treads o'er the ivy's dull wreath, 
Save the raging hyena, whose terrible cry 
Echoes loud thro' the halls and the palaces high. 

Thou art fallen, Palmyra! and never to rise. 

Thou " queen of the east, thou bright child of the 

skies!" 
Thou art lonely; the desert around thee is wide. 
Then haste to its arms, nor remember thy pride. 

Thou'rt forgotten. Palmyra! return thee to earth; 
And great be thy fall, as was stately thy birth; 
With grandeur then bow 'neath the pinion of time, 
And sink, not in splendour, but sadly sublime. 



276 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



THE WIDE WORLD IS DREAR. 

(Written in her sixteenth year.) 

Oh say not the wide world is lonely and dreary! 

Oh say not that life is a wilderness waste! 
There's ever some comfort in store for the weary, 

And there's ever some hope for the sorrowful breast. 

There are often sweet dreams which will steal o'er 
the soul, - 

Beguiling the mourner to smile through a tear, 
That when waking the dew-drops of mem'ry may 
fall, 
And blot out for ever, the wide world is drear. 

There is hope for the lost, for the lone one's relief, 
Which will beam o'er his pathway of danger and 
fear; 
There is pleasure's wild throb, and the calm "joy of 
grief," 
Oh then say not the wide world is lonely and drear! 

There are fears that are anxious, yet sweet to the 
breast, 

Some feelings, which language ne'er told to the ear. 
Which return on the heart, and there Ungering rest, 

Soft whispering, this world is not lonely and drear. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 277 

^Tis true, that the dreams of the evening will fade, 
When reason's broad sunbeam shines calmly and 
clear; 

Still fancy, sweet fancy, will smile o'er the shade, 
And say that the world is not lonely and drear. 

Oh then mourn not that life is a wilderness waste! 

That each hope is illusive, each prospect is drear. 
But remember that man, undeserving, is blest. 

And rewarded with smiles for the fall of a tear. 



FAREWELL TO MISS E. B. 

(■Written in her ei^teenth year.) 

Farewell, and whenever calm solitude's hour, 
Shall silently spread its broad wings o'er your bower, 
Oh! then gaze on yon planet, yon watch-fire divine, 
And believe that my soul is there mingling with 
thine. 

When the dark brow of evening is beaming with 

stars. 
And yon crest of light clouds is the turban she wears, 
When she walks forth in grandeur, the queen of the 

night. 
Oh! then think that my spirit looks on with delight. 



278 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

O'er the ocean of life our frail vessels are bounding, 
And danger and death our dark pathway surrounding; 
Destruction's bright meteors are dancing before, 
And behind us the winds of adversity roar. 

Oh! then come, let us light friendship's lamp on the 

wave, 
If we're lost, it will shed its pure light o'er the grave, 
Or 'twill guide to the haven of Heaven at last. 
And beam on when the voice of the trumpet hath 

past. 



THE ARMY OF ISRAEL AT THE FOOT OF 
MOUNT SINAI. 

Their spears glittered bright in the beams of the sun; 
Their banners waved far, and their high helmets 

shone; 
And their dark plumes were toss'd on the breast of 

the breeze. 
But the war-trumpet slumbered the slumber of peace. 

He came in his glory, he came in his might. 
His chariot the cloud, and his sceptre the light; 
The sound of his coming was heard from afar. 
Like the roar of a nation when rushing to war. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 279 

'Twas the great God of Israel, riding on high, 
Whose footstool is earth, and whose throne is the sky; 
He stood in his glory, unseen and alone, 
And with letters of fire traced the tablets of stone. 

The eagle may soar to the sun in his might. 
And the eye of the warrior flash fierce in the fight; 
But say, who may look upon God the Most High? 
Oh, Israel! turn back from his glory, or die. 

The sun in its splendour, the fire in its might. 
Which devours and withers, and wastes from the 

sight. 
Is dim to the glory which beams from his eye — 
Then, Israel, turn back — Oh ! return, or ye die. 



280 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



THE GARDEN OF GETHSEMANE. 

Gethsemane ! there's holy blood 
Upon thy green and waving brow; 

Gethsemane! a God hath stood, 
And o'er thy branches bended low ! 

There, drops of agony have hung 
Mingled with blood upon his brow; 

For sin his bosom there was wrung, 
And there it bled for human wo. 

There, in the darkest hour of night, 
Alone he watched, alone he prayed; 

Didst thou not tremble at the sight? 
A God reviled! — a God betrayed! 

Gethsemane! so dark a scene 

Ne'er blotted the wide book of time! 

Oblivion's veil can never screen 
So dark a deed, so black a crime! 



POETICAL REMAINS. 281 



THE TEMPEST GOD. 

Hark! 'tis the wheels of his wide rolling car, 
They traverse the heavens and come from afar; 
Sublime and majestic the dark cloud he rides, 
The wing of the whirlwind he fearlessly strides, 
The glance of his eye is the lightning's broad flame 
And the caverns re-echo his terrible name. 

In the folds of his pinions, the wild whirlwinds sleep, 
At his bidding they rush o'er the foam of the deep. 
He speaks, and in whispers they murmur to rest. 
And calmly they sink on the folds of his breast; 
His seat is the mountain top's loftiest height; 
He reigns there in darkness, the king of the night. 



282 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



TO A DEPARTING FRIEND. 

Farewell, and may some angel guide, 
Some viewless spirit hover o'er thee; 

Who, let or weal or wo betide, 

Will still unchanging move before thee. 

A hallow'd light shall burn at night, 
When sorrow's wave rolls drearily, 

And o'er thy way a cloud by day 
Shall cast its shadow cheerily. 

Thy bark of pleasure o'er life's smooth sea 

Shall gallantly glide along; 
Pray'rs and blessings thy breezes shall be. 

And hope be thy parting song. 

Go then; I have given the spirits charge 
To watch o'er thee now and for ever; 

To smooth life's waters, and guide thy barge 
Where tempest shall toss it never. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 283 



TO MAMMA. 

Thy love inspires the Story Teller's tongue. 
To tales of hearts with disappointment wrung-, 
Thy love inspires; — fresh flows the copious stream, 
And what's not true, let fruitful fancy dream. 

The Story Teller. 



THE PARTING OF DECOURCY AND 
WILHELMINE. 

^ (Written in lier fourteenth year.) 

1. Lo! enthron'd on golden clouds ; 

Sinks the monarch of the day; 
Now yon hill his glory shronds, 
And his brilliance fades away. 

2. But as it fled, one lingering beam 

PlayM o'er yon spire, which points on high; 
It cast one bright, one transient gleam, 
Then hastened from the deep'ning sky. 

3. Lo! the red tipp'd clouds remain 

But to tell of glories past; 
Mark them gathering o'er the plain, 
Mark them fade away at last. 



284 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

4. The lake is calm, the breeze is still, 

Nor dares to whisper o'er a leaf; 
And nothing save the mnrm'ring rill 
Can give the vacant ear relief. 

5. Around yon hawthorn in the vale 

White garments float like evening mist; 
'Tis Wilhelmine, and cold and pale 
A simple marble stone she kiss'd. 

6. She knelt her by a lowly tomb, 

And wreath'd its urn anew with flowers; 
She taught the white rose there to bloom, 
And water'd it with sorrow's showers. 

7. Like raven's wing, her glossy hair 

In ringlets floated on the gale. 
Or hung upon a brow as fair 
As snow curl crested in the vale. 

8. And her dark eye which rolls so wild. 

Once brightly sparkled with hope's light. 
For Wilhelmine was pleasure's child. 

When fortune's smiles shone sweetly bright. 



9. Decourcy lov'd — the morn was clear, 
And fancy promis'd bliss; 
For now the happy hour was near, 
Which made the maiden his. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 285 

10. And Wilhelmine sat smiling sweet 

Beneath the spreading tree, 
Her nimble foot was quick to meet, 
Her glancing eye to see. 

11. Decourcy came upon his steed, 

His brow and cheek were pale; 
Speak — speak, Decourcy, cried the maid, 
'Tis sure a dreadful tale. 

12. My love, my Wilhelmine, cried he, 

Be calm and fear thee not; 
In battle I will think on thee, 
And oh, forget me not. 

13. Adieu! he clasp'd her to his breast, 

And kiss'd the trickling tear 
Which 'neath her half closM eyelids prest, 
And lingering glist'ned there. 

14. He gazed upon that death-like face. 

So beautiful before; 
He gazed upon that shrine of grace. 
And dared to gaze no more. 

15. He trembled, pressM his burning brow, 

And clos'd his aching eyes; 
His limbs refuse their office now. 
The maid before him lies. 

16. But hark! the trumpet's warlike sound 

Echoes from hill to vale; 



286 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

He caught the maiden from the ground 
And kiss'd her forehead pale. 

17. Why should Decourcy hnger there 

When the bugle bids him speed? 
One long last look of calm despair, 
And he springs upon his steed; 

18. He strikes the sting of his bloody spur 

In his foaming courser's side, 
And he gallops on where the wave of war 
Rolls on with its bursting tide. 

19. Whose was the sword that flashed so bright, 

Like the flaming brand of heaven? 
And whose the plume, that from morn till night 
Was a star to the hopeless given? 

20. 'Twas thine, Decourcy! that terrible sword 

Hath finished its work of death, 
And the hand which raised it on high is lowered 
To the damp green earth beneath. 

21. The sun went down, and its parting ray 

Smiled sorrow across the earth. 
The light breeze moaned — then died away, 
And the stars rose up in mirth. 

22. And the timid moon looked down with a smile 

On the blood-stained battle ground. 
And the groans of the wounded rose up the while. 
With a sad heart-rending sound, 



POETICAL REMAINS. 287 

23. While the spectre-form of some grief-worn man 

Steals slowly and silently by, 
Each corpse to note — each face to scan, 
For his friend on that field doth lie. 

24. But whose is the figure dimly seen 

By the trembling moon-beam's light? 
'Tis the form of the weeping Welhelmine, 
And she kneels by the slaughtered knight. 

25. Weep not for the dead, for he died 'mid the din, 

And the rapturous shouts of strife. 
And the bright sword hath ushered his soul within 
The portals of future life. 

26. Weep not for the dead! who would not die 

As that gallant soldier died? 
With a field of glory whereon to lie, 
And his foeman dead beside. 

27. A year passed by, and a simple tomb 

Rose up ^neath a willow tree, 
'Twas decked with flowers in vernal bloom 
As fresh as flowers could be; 

28. And oft as the twilight's dusky gleam 

O'er the scene was gently stealing. 
The form of the sorrowful maid was seen 
By the grave of her lover kneeling. 

29. But wild is the glance of her dove-like eye, 

And her cheek, oh how pale and fair! 



2SS LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

And the mingled smile and the deep drawn sigh, 
Show that reason's no longer there. 

30. Another year passed, and another grave 
'Neath the willow tree is seen; 
By the side of her lover, Decourcy the brave, 
Lay the corpse of Wilhelmine. 



LOVE, JOY, AND PLEASURE. 



AN ALLEGORY. 



CWritten in her fifteenth year.) 



The night was calm, the sky serene. 

The sea a mirror displayed, 
On its bosom the twinkling stars were seen, 
The moon-crested waves were dancing between, 

And smiling through evening's shade. 

On that placid sea Pleasure's bark was riding, 
Love and Joy were its guides through the deep. 

And their hearts beat high, while on fortune con- 
fiding, 

They smil'd at the forms that were gloomily striding. 
O'er the brow of the wave-wash'd steep. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 2S9 

Those forms were Malice, and Scorn, and Hate, 

And they flitted around so dark, 
That they seem'd Hke the gloomy sisters of Fate, 
Intent on some dreary, some deadly debate, 

To ruin the beautiful bark. 

But the eye of Joy was raised on high, , ■ 

She gaz'd at the moon's pale lamp. 
The tear of Pleasure shone bright in her eye, 
And she saw not the clouds which were passing by. 

Death's messengers dark and damp. 

And Pleasure was gazing with childish glee 

At the beacon's trembling gleam. 
Or watching the shade of her wings in the sea. 
With their colours as varied and fickle as she. 

As fleeting as Folly's dream. 

And Love was tipping his feath'ry darts. 

And feeding his flaming torch. 
He was tinging his wings with the blood of hearts. 
He was chanting low numbers, and smelling by 
starts 

At the flowers 'round Hymen's porch. 

Meanwhile the clouds were gath'ring drear. 

They hung 'round the weeping moon, 
And still the mariners dream'd not of fear, 
Still in Joy's bright eye beam'd the brilliant tear, 
Which sorrow would claim too soon. 
19 



290 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

The voice of the tempest-god rolled around, 

The bark towards heaven was toss'd; 
Then, then the fond dreamers awoke at the sound, 
And Pleasure, the helmsman, in agony found, 
That the light-house fire was lost. 

Loud and more loud the billows roar, 

The ocean no more is gay, 
Love dreams of his pinions and arrows no more, 
Joy mourns the hour that she left the shore, 

And Pleasure's bright wings fade away. 

Then Malice sent forth a shadowy bark, 

Which, bounding o'er the wave. 
Came like a meteor's brilliant spark, 
A star of light 'mid the tempest dark, 

A beacon of hope from the grave. 

Joy onward rush'd to the airy skiff 

Which near them gaily drew. 
But ah! she sank to the arms of Grief, 
For the bark, which promis'd them sure relief 

Away like light'ning flew. 

Then the smile of Scorn and Malice gleam'd 

Across the billow's foam, 
And long and loud fell Hatred scream'd 
With fiend-like joy, as the lightning stream'd 

Around their forms of gloom. 



POETICAL REMAINS. 291 

On, on, they drifted before the gale; 

Again the signal rose; 
Joy and Pleasure the beacon hail, 
Love's ashy cheek becomes less pale 

As clearer and brighter it glows. 

Twas Hope who fired the beacon high, 

And she came with her anchor of rest. 
And Faith, who raised towards heaven her eye, 
Spoke peace to the storm of the troubled sky, 
And calm to the weary breast. 

And Charity came with her robe of light. 

And she led the wanderers home. 
She warmed them and wept o'er the woes of the 

night. 
And she welcomed them in with a smile so bright. 

That Pleasure forgot to roam. 

And she led them to Religion's shrine. 

Where Hope was humbly kneeling. 
And there the tears of Joy did shine 
With a light more dazzling, more divine. 

They were mingled with tears of feeling. 

There Love's wild wings shone calmly bright, 

As over the altar he waved them; 
There Pleasure folded her pinions hght. 
And fondly gazed with a sacred delight 

On the scroll which Charity gave them. 



292 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



MY LAST FAREWELL TO MY HARP. 

And must we part? yes, part forever; 
I'll waken thee again — no, never; 
Silence shall chain thee cold and drear, 
And thou shalt calmly slumber here. 
Unhallowed was the eye that gazed 
Upon the lamp which brightly blazed, 
The lamp which never can expire, 
The undying, wild, poetic fire. 
And Oh! unhallowed was the tongue 
Which boldly and uncouthly sung; 
I bless'd the hour when o'er my soul. 
Thy magic numbers gently stole, 
And o'er it threw those heavenly strains, 
Which since have bound my heart in chains; 
Those wild, those witching numbers still 
Will o'er my widow'd bosom steal. 
I blest that hour, but Oh! my heart, 
Thou and thy Lyre must part; yes, part; 
And this shall be my last farewell. 
This my sad bosom's latest knell. 
And here, my harp, we part for ever; 
I'll waken thee again. Oh! never; 
Silence shall chain thee cold and drear. 
And thou shalt calmly slumber here. 



SPECIMENS 



OP 



PROSE COMPOSITION. 



COLUMBUS. 

CWritten in her sixteenth year.) 

What must have been the feelings of Christopher 
Cokimbiis, when, for the first time, he knelt and clasp- 
ed his hands, in gratitude, upon the shores of his 
newly-discovered world? Year after year has rolled 
away; war, famine, and fire have alternately swept 
the face of that country; the hand of tyranny hath 
oppressed it; the footstep of the slave hath wearily 
trodden it; the blood of the slaughtered hath dyed it; 
the tears of the wretched have bedewed it; still, even 
at this remote period, every feeling bosom will delight 
to dwell upon this brilliant era in the life of the per- 
severing adventurer. At that moment, his name was 
stamped upon the records of history for ever; at that 
moment, doubt, fear, and anxiety fled, for his foot had 
pressed upon the threshold of the promised land. 

The bosom of Columbus hath long since ceased to 
beat — its hopes, its fears, its projects, sleep, with him, 
the long and dreamless slumber of the grave; but 
while there remains one generous pulsation in the 
human breast, his name and his memory will be held 
sacred. 

When the cold dews of uncertainty stood upon his 
brow; when he beheld nothing but the wide heavens 



296 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

above, the boundless waters beneath and around him; 
himself and his companions in that Uttle bark, the only 
beings upon the endless world of sky and ocean; 
when he looked back and thought upon his native 
land: when he looked forward, and in vain traversed 
the liquid desert, for some spot upon which to fix the 
aching eye of anxiety; oh! say, amidst all these dan- 
gers, these uncertainties, whence came that high, un- 
bending hope, which still soared onward to the world 
before him? whence that undying patience, that more 
than mortal courage, which forbade his cheek to blanch 
amid the storm, or his heart to recoil in the dark and 
silent hour of midnight? It was from God — it was 
of God — His Spirit overshadowed the adventurer! By 
day, an unseen cloud directed him — by night, a bril- 
liant, but invisible column moved before him, gleaming 
athwart the boundless waste of waters. The winds 
watched over him, and the waves upheld him, for God 
was with him — the whirlwind passed over his little 
bark, and left it still riding onward, in safety, towards 
its unknown harbour — for the eye of Him who pierces 
the deep was fixed upon it. 

Columbus had hoped, feared, and had been disap- 
pointed; he had suffered long and patiently — he had 
strained every faculty, every nerve; he had pledged 
his very happiness upon the discovery of an unknown 
land; and what must have been the feelings of his 
soul, when, at length bending over that very land, his 
grateful bosom offered its tribute of praise and thanks- 
giving to the Being who had guarded and guided him 
through death and danger? He beheld the bitter smite 



COLUMBUS. 297 

of scorn and derision fade before the reality of that 
vision, which had been ridiculed and mocked at; he 
thought upon the thousand obstacles which he had sur- 
mounted; he thought upon those who had regarded 
him as a self-devoted enthusiast, a visionary madman, 
and his full heart throbbed in gratitude to Him whose 
Spirit had inspired him, whose voice had sent him 
forth, and whose arm had protected him. 



298 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



ALPHONSO IN SEARCH OF LEARNING. 



AN ALLEGORY. 



(Written in her eleventh year.) 



Early one morning Alphonso set out in search of 
Learning. He travelled over barren heaths and over 
rocks, and was often obliged to ford rivers, which 
seemed almost impassable; at last, completely ex- 
hausted, and at a loss what road to take, he sat down 
desponding by the side of a rapid river. Soon a pas- 
senger approached with whom Alphonso entered into 
conversation, and at length asked him where he was 
going. I am, replied the stranger, seeking Fame, and 
already by her trump has my name been sounded in 
her courts. She has promised to immortalize my 
name; follow me, and you shall richly reap the reward 
of your labour. / also, answered Alphonso, have a 
road to pursue, which leads to Fame, but it is through 
Learning that I must reach her courts, and then shall 
I enjoy the fruits of my toil, in proportion to the 
hardships with which I have acquired it. Can you 
tell me where she can be found? 

You see, replied the stranger, j^-onder hills which 
rise one upon the other, as far as the eye extends; far, 
far beyond them, whose every precipice you have to 
climb, Learning resides. Her temple is pleasant, but 



ALPHONSO. 299 

few there are who gain it; many, indeed, have gone 
beyond these foremost hills, but stumbhng, they have 
been dashed to pieces on the rocks, but still they have 
had the reputation of having reached her temple, and 
their names are recorded in the roll of Fame. Thus 
saying, the stranger proceeded on his journey, and 
left Alphonso in doubt whether to pursue the danger- 
ous road of which the stranger had warned him^ or 
to follow him to more easily acquired fame. 

At last Wisdom came to his assistance, and he re- 
solved not to give up his search after Learning. He 
proceeded therefore, and had reached the foot of the 
hill, when he was met by another person, who inquired 
whither he was going? I am in pursuit of Learning, 
replied Alphonso. What! do you intend cUmbing 
yonder rugged and tiresome hill? I do, answered 
Alphonso. 

Indolence is my companion, said the stranger; I 
found her in yonder valley. I toiled not for her, and 
without toil, I enjoy ease; on the other hand. Learning 
cannot be obtained without labour; go with me, and 
you shall enjoy life. Alphonso, partly fatigued with 
his long walk, and partly discouraged by the rugged 
appearance of the hill, consented. After walking on 
sometime in a beautiful valley, xllphonso began to dis- 
cover that his new companion was fiat and insipid, 
that he had exhausted all his little fund of knowledge, 
in the beginning of their journey, and that he now 
scarcely said anything. Thus continuing dissatisfied, 
not with the path, but with the companion he had, 
they entered a beautiful meadow, in which there was 



300 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

an arbour, called the arbour of Indolence, and there 
they lay down to rest; but before Alphonso slept, a 
warning voice sounded in his ear, " awake, for destruc- 
tion is at hand." He heeded it not, and with his 
senses slept his conscience. 

When they arose to pursue their journey, a tempest 
gathered ; thick clouds were in the heavens, all was 
black. Night's sable mantle was thrown over the 
horizon, and only now and then a flash of Hghtning, 
attended with a dreadful thunderbolt, showed them 
both the dead waters of oblivion; near them was the 
path which slides the unhappy deluded mortal down 
to its deep and noisome bed. 

Alphonso's conductor, who had before appeared cer- 
tain of being on safe ground, trembled and turned pale 
when he found himself in the fatal path. Alphonso 
was on the brink! He receded; his flesh grew cold, 
his eyeballs glared, and his hair stood on end. Pre- 
sently he heard a low plashing of the dead waters of 
oblivion; they closed with a sullen roar over the un- 
happy suff'erer, and all was silent. This is the end of 
the careless votary of Indolence, thought Alphonso, 
as he turned from the dead waters of the lake. Let 
this be a lesson to me ! 

He stood in deep perplexity some time, not daring 
to turn back, and he knew it would be certain death 
to proceed; but suddenly the clouds dispersed, the air 
was calm, and all was silent; he blessed the returning 
light, and with new vigour, passed on his way in search 
of Learning. He was overjoyed, when he found him- 
self out of the fatal vale of Indolence. 



ALPHONSO. 301 

Again he viewed those hills which so discouraged 
him when they met his eye before, but now they ap- 
peared to him with a far different aspect, as he traced 
over them the path to Learning's happy temple. 

He began his journey anew, and as he proceeded, 
the ascent was easier. When he reached the top of 
the hill, a few faint rays of the bright sun of Learning 
warmed his heart, and though faint, it was sufficient 
to kindle the slumbering fire of hope in his bosom. 
After he had reached the valley below, he saw a person 
crossing on the opposite side, with a light step, and an 
open ingenuous countenance. 

Alphonso stopped him, and inquired, why he did 
not ascend the hill before him? Because, said the 
stranger, " I seek Truth, and she dwells in the simple 
vale of Innocence; at her court there is no pomp, but 
there is peace; she discloses her name to all; some re- 
vile her, others say she is of no use to the world, that 
they are always as victorious without her assistance 
as with it. Her followers scarce ever suffer from the 
imputations of the vile, when they hold fast upon her 
garments. I can possess Truth and Innocence without 
Learning." Here the travellers parted — Alphonso to 
ascend the hill, the stranger to the vale of Innocence. 

Without a companion in his solitary journey; with 
no one to assist him on his way; no one to raise him 
if he stumbled, Alphonso pursued his toilsome course. 
At length, casting his eyes to the top of the hill, he 
perceived standing on its summit a figure stretching 
out one hand to assist him, the other rested on an an- 
chor, and a bright beam played around her brow. 



302 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Alphonso hastened to ascend the hill, and when he 
approached, he clasped the outstretched hand of Hope, 
for that was the name of the fair form, and imprinted 
it with kisses. Hope smiled affectionately npon him, 
and with these encouraging words addressed him: 
"Alphonso! I come to conduct you to the temple of 
Learning; you have overcome alone the greatest obsta- 
cles, you shall now have a conductor. 

As they came to frightful precipices, where un- 
fortunate mortals had been dashed headlong, for daring 
to approach too near its edge, Hope would catch his 
hand and conduct him to safer ground. At last, through 
many difficulties, hazards, and reproaches, Alphonso 
came in sight of the temple of Learning. The sun 
was just sinking, and it illumined the edges of the 
fleecy floating clouds with a golden hue. Its last 
beam played upon the glittering spire of the temple; 
Alphonso could scarce believe his eyes. They reached 
the threshold. After so many toils, so many dangers, 
he had now acquired the object of his hopes. 

They stood a moment, when the door was opened 
by a grave looking old man, who heartily welcomed 
them to the temple. As they entered all was light; 
it burst upon his sight like some enchanted scene, 
where none but astherial beings dwell. Irresistibly 
he cast his eyes up to the nave of the spacious hall, 
and beheld Learning sealed upon a throne of gold. 
A bright sun emitted its cheering rays above his head. 
In one hand she held a globe, in the other a pen. 
Books were piled up in great order here, and in ano- 
ther place they were strewn in wild profusion. Ten 



ALPHONSO. 303 

of her favourite tlisciples were ranged on either hand, 
the swift winged Genius with his beloved companion 
Fancy were seated at her right hand, and often did 
Genius cast an approving smile at the mistress of his 
heart and actions; she who had tamed the wild spirit 
of his temper, and taught it to follow in gentler, softer, 
and sweeter murmurs. 

Hope now conducted Alphonso to the throne of 
Learning. She smiled as he humbly kneeled at her 
footstool, and taking a laurel from the hand of the de- 
lighted and willing Genius, she crowned the brow of 
the elated Alphonso. Fancy for a moment deserted 
the side of Genius and hovered over his laurel-crowned 
brow; then clapping her wings in delight she again 
resumed her former station. Learning stretched forth 
her hand to him; arise, said she, you are destined by 
fate to fill this long vacant seat. Alphonso kissed the 
outstretched hand, and gratefully took his seat at the 
side of Learning. 



304 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 



SENSIBILITY. 

In this delicate emotion of the human mind there is 
a mixture of anger and delight; it may be indulged 
moderately, with pleasure to its possessor, but uncon- 
trolled, it brings in its train a succession of ideal mise- 
ries, and sensations of acute pain or exquisite delight. 

It often causes the heart to shrink with sensitive 
honour from difficulties in the path of life slightly no- 
ticed, or scarcely perceptible to the mind well governed 
by reason, or fortified by principle. Lively sensibi- 
lity may be considered as the key-stone of the heart; it 
often unguardedly unlocks the treasures confided to its 
care, and pouring forth the full tide of feeling, the 
warmest impulses of the soul are wasted upon trifles 
or squandered on objects insignificant to the eye of 
reason, and frequently exposes the feeling heart to con- 
tempt and ridicule. 

Deep and delicate sensibility, that feeling of the soul 
which shrinks from observation and pours itself forth 
in secret calm retirement, must certainly by its dignity 
and sacred character cause feelings of reverence for 
its possessor. Jesus wept over the grave of his de- 
parted friend, his sensibility was aroused, and he shed 
tears of sorrow over the dark wreck of a once noble 
fabric in the mouldering remnants of mortality before 
him. His prophetic soul gazed upon wide scenes of 
future desolation. He felt for the miseries of mankind; 



THE HOLY WRITINGS. 305 

he pitied their folly and wept over the final destruction 
of the human frame, undermined by sin and borne 
down by death. 



THE HOLY WRITINGS. 

Through the whole of this sacred volume may be 
traced the finger of a God I It is overshadowed by 
his arm, and his spirit walks forth in the sublimity of 
his commandments. What are the mad revihngs of 
the scoffer? They are like burning coals which fall 
back upon the head of him who hurled them, leaving 
the object of his rage uninjured. What are the most 
philosophic works of mankind when placed in com- 
parison with it? They sink into nothing. What are 
the brilliant shafts of human wit when directed against 
it? They are as the gilded wing of the butterfly, flut- 
tering feebly against the nervous, the resistless pinion 
of an eagle. What are all the immense magazines of 
learning beside it, but a boundless heap of chaff? Yes; 
the vast edifices of human knowledge reared by the 
restless hand of ingenuity, and bedecked with all the 
gaudy trappings of eloquence, crumble into dust and 
fall prostrate in its presence, as did the heathen idol 
before the ark of the living God ! 

Do we ask eloquence? Where can it be found more 

pure than from the mouth of him whose voice of mercy 

is a murmur, and whose anger speaks in wrathful 

thunders? Do we ask sublimity? The eagle in its 

20 



306 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

flight toward heaven is less sublime than the hallowed 
words of its Maker. Do we ask simplicity? What is 
more touchingly so, then the language of the sacred 
volume? Do we ask sweetness or tenderness? The 
breath of summer is less sweet, than the Almighty's 
offered mercies. The fabled bird which sheds her blood 
for the nourishment of her innocent offspring, is cruel 
in comparison with him, who bled, who died, for those 
who cursed and tortured him. Do we ask grandeur, 
wildness or strength? Look there! there upon the law 
of him whose very self is grandeur, whose glance is 
lightning, and whose arm is strength. 

The hand of the impious and the envious may hurl 
the dust of derision upon this sacred volume, still, it 
will shine on, brighter and brighter, while time shall be! 



CHARITY. 307 



CHARITY. 

The sacred volume exhorts us to Charity. How 
carefully then should we cherish this kindly feeling, 
this spark from the fountain of life, that it may beam 
forth undimmed, and with its pure and friendly light, 
cast a ray over our many imperfections, in that day 
when all will stand in need of mercy and forbearance! 

It is not the bare distribution of alms to the needy 
and suffering beggar, it is not the pompous offerings 
of opulence to the shrinking child of poverty, which 
constitutes true charity; — no; it is to be understood in 
a far wider sense; it is forbearing to join with the mul- 
titude, when trampling upon a fallen fellow creature. 
It is the voice of charity which pleads for the wretched 
and the penitent, which raises the prostrate, and whis- 
pers forgiveness for the past, and hope for the future. 
It is her hand which pours the balm of consolation 
into the lacerated bosom of the returning wanderer; 
who dares not look back upon the past, and whose 
heart shrinks as it meets the cold and averted glances 
of those, who in the hour of its pride had bowed 
before it. 

We are all liable to err. Let us make the situation 
of the suffering penitent our own. Where are the 
friends we had fondly fancied ours? fled as from the 
breath of pestilence, and we are desolate; left with the 
arrow of adversity rankling in our bosoms, like the 



308 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

Stricken deer by the selfish herd, to perish in solitude 
and wretchedness. 

There is no heart so hardened and depraved, that 
it will not, when the soft voice of charity whispers 
peace and forgiveness, yield like wax beneath the 
hand which stamps it. Then is the moment to impress 
upon it the sacred precepts of virtue, and to place the 
bright rewards of penitence before it. "Let us then 
do as we would that others should do unto us;" have 
mercy upon the fallen and stretch forth the hand of 
charity to the suffering and the penitent. 



IMMORALITY OF THE STAGE. 309 



REMARKS ON THE IMMORALITY OF THE 

STAGE. 

Why is it that the ear of modesty must be shocked 
by the indelicacy and immorality which obstinately 
clings to the stage, that vehicle of good or evil, that 
splendid engine whose movements may shed a halo 
of brilliancy around it, or leave behind the blackened 
traces of its desolating progress? 

Can the eye of innocence gaze even upon the mimic 
characters of vice, or the ear of delicacy become 
familiarized to the rude and boisterous, or the more 
dangerously subtle insinuations of depravity, without 
quitting the fascinating scene less fastidious in its feel- 
ings, less sensible to the bold intrusions of barefaced 
wickedness? No: — though the change be slow and 
almost imperceptible, still it will not be the less certain, 
the fatal poison will creep to the very vitals of virtue, 
and stamp deep stains upon the spotless tablet of inno- 
cence. 

Must then all that is bright and pure be shut out 
from those scenes of fascination, and delight? Must 
that very purity which should be cherished and guard- 
ed as a sacred deposit, be converted into a chain 
wherewith to shackle the amusements of its possessor? 
Would not the frequent indulgence of this amusement, 
be holding forth a strong temptation to those who are 
but partially fortified in the principles of rectitude, to 



310 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

overleap the crumbling ill-formed barrier, and plunge 
at once, into the boundless ocean of vice and immo- 
rality? 

Oh why will not authors, those helmsmen in the 
mighty vessel of improvement, dash the countless 
stains from the charts which they are holding to our 
eyes, and transform their blackened pages to pure, 
spotless records of truth and virtue? Then we should 
no longer mark the blush of offended modesty- 
mantling the cheek of sensibility, or the frown of dis- 
approbation clouding the pure brow of refinement 
and morality. The stage would then become the 
guardian and the friend, instead of the fell destroyer 
of all that is pure and virtuous in the human breast. 



CONTEMPLATION OF THE HEAVENS. 311 



CONTEMPLATION OF THE HEAVENS, 

To count the glittering millions of the sky, to mar- 
shal them in bright array before us, to mark the bril- 
liant traces of a Creator's presence, the foot-prints of 
the Deity, is a hallowed and sublime employment of 
the soul; for being insensibly led onward from gazing 
upon the portals of heaven, the wonderful threshold of 
God's wide pavilion, it dares to lift itself in pure and 
unearthly communion, with the Holy Spirit that in- 
habits there, and to bow in adoration and praise before 
the great I AM. 

To a feeling mind, the heavens unroll a vast vol- 
ume, filled with subjects of wonder, love, and praise. 
Wonder, at the inconceivable majesty and goodness 
of the great Creator of so vast, so splendid a system; 
love, for his condescension in deigning to bend his at- 
tention to so insignificant a creature as man, even in 
the meridian of his earthly glory; and praise, for his 
unchangeable benevolence, infinite wisdom, and per- 
fection. What hand but that of a God could have 
formed the wide solar system above us? what voice but 
that of Him who created them, could bid the starry 
millions move on for thousands of ages in one unbro- 
ken and unceasing march? The lights of heaven are 
bright and beautiful, still they are but feeble beams 
from the everlasting fountain of splendour, or wander- 
ing sparks of Heaven's dazzling glory. Well indeed 



312 LUCRETIA MARIA DAVIDSON. 

might Zoroaster, in the enthusiasm of his heat, worship 
the fires of Heaven as parts of that ineffable and never- 
dying spirit which animates and lives in all, through 
all eternity. 

In the dark ages of superstition and bigotry, was it 
strange that he should turn in disgust from the sacri- 
fices of blood, from horrid images the disgraceful pro- 
ductions of weak bewildered minds, to a fount of pure, 
unchanging, living light, to the brilliant fires above 
him, holding their unbroken paths through Heaven, 
pointing to God's throne, and whispering to the heart 
of something still more bright, more beautiful and holy? 



THE END. 



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In Two Volumes 12mo. 

" Cecil, or Memoirs of a Coxcomh. — This book is remarkably 
clever, written in a sparkling and easy style, which is read as 
easily. It is full of pointed things. The writer has also a vein 
of humorous exaggeration, at which we have laughed heartily, 
and his picture of high London Life could only have been drawn 
by a thorough proficient in its sordid jealousies and utter want of 
heart." — Examiner. 

" The author of this brilliant novel figures with all the supre- 
macy of a master. The work is perfectly fresh in style, and is 
full of graceful vivacity." — Morning Herald. 

" A novel of the ' Vivian Grey' school, but with more point 
and vigour. The story is told throughout with unflagging spirit, 
and wears an aspect of reality not often met with in fiction." — 
Sun. 

" Many are the vicissitudes which befall Cecil. His coxcombry 
and adventures are amusing; his humour is searching and sar- 
castic, and the living spirit which animates his confessions hold 
out to the last." — Athenaum. 



THE PIC NIC PAPERS, 

BY VARIOUS HANDS. 

Edited by Charles Dickens, Esq., author of '■'■Oliver Twist,^* ^^Nicko- 
las Nickleby,''^ &c , containing 

The Lamplighter's Story, by Charles Dickens, The Knight 
Banneret, by Miss Strickland. John Dryden and Jacob Tonson. 
Some account of Marcus Bell, the Convict, by Leitch Ritchie. 
Jean Cameron's College, by Allen Cunningham. The Expedi- 
tion of Major Ap Owen, by W. H. Maxwell. The Student of 
Bagdad, by Thomas Moore. The old London Merchant, by W. 
H. Ainsworth. My Annt Honour, by Miss Strickland. Esther, 
a Tale of Spain, in the Sixteenth Century, by the author of Bram- 
bletye House. Count Ludwig, a marvellous tale. Le Pas du 
Vent, by the Hon. Mr. Murray, &c. in two volumes 12mo. 

" The infinite variety and sterling merit of these singularly 
entertaining volumes, ought at once to command for them a place 
beside the most popular works of the day." — Court Jonrnal. 

" The Pic Nic Papers" present an intellectual repast of the 
most delightful character. Wit and pathos, diablerie and senti- 
ment, humour and romance, the quaint story of the olden time, 
and the exciting narrative of modern adventure, in turn contri- 
bute to the banquet." — London New Monthly. 

GUY FAWKES, 

OR 

THE GUNPOWDER TREASON, 

AN HISTORICAL ROMANCE. 
By William Harrison Ainsworth, author of "T/^e Toioer of Lon- 
don" ^'■Jack Sheppard" Sfc. 
In One Volume, 8vo, with Plates. 
" We look upon ' Guy Fawkes' as, in many respects, the Au- 
thor's best production. The incidents of the story and the situa- 
tions of the chief actors in it, are such as enable a writer pos- 
sessed of his peculiar powers, to turn them to the best possible 
account. Deeply read in the history of the time, versed in anti- 
quarian lore, and familiar with details and localities, he adds to 
these qualifications a quick susceptibility of the nature of effect, 
and the power of grouping his figures so as to bring them at once 
into immediate action, — attributes which are eminently service- 
able in a narrative like the present. In his happiest efforts we 
are often reminded of the free and vigorous pencil of Wouver- 
mans. The account of the flight of Viviana, Guy Fawkes, and 
Humphrey Chetham across Chat Moss is admirably told, and the 
incantation scene with the celebrated Dr. Dee, is narrated in a 
tone perfectly in accordance Avitli the superstitious belief of the 
time. The examination of Guy Fawkes before James I. is an 
extremely good scene; and the firmness and resolution of the con- 
spirator are very strikingly portrayed; nor is the dreadful torture 
to which he was subsequently condemned, less graphically de- 
scribed. In seeking a romance of stirring character and intense 
interest, the reader will assuredly not be disappointed." — Blom- 
ing Herald. 



THE CRITICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS WRITINGS 

OF 

SIR EDWARD LYTTON BULWER, 

Author of '•'■Pelhamy^ ''■The Disowned,''* Sfc. 

Contents. — Sir Walter Scott; Art in Fiction; Death of Sir 
Walter Scott; Zicci, a Tale; Conversation with an Ambitious 
Student in ill health; Poems of Laman Blanchard; Poems of 
Robert Montgomery; Tour of a German Prince; Present State of 
Poetry; Notes of Lord Brougham's Speeches; Sir Thomas 
Browne; The People's Charter; Letters by an English member 

of Parliament to M. de , of the Chambre des Deputes, No. 1, 

on Public Opinion; On Political Coalitions; Upon the Spirit of 
True Criticism; Authors and their Works; Proposals for a Lite- 
rary Union; Literature considered as a Profession; International 
Law of Copyright; The Modern Platonist; The knowledge of 
the World in Men and Books; on English Notions of Morality; 
The Wilful Misstatements of the Gluarterly Review; Letters to 
the Editors of the Quarterly Review; On the Influence and Edu- 
cation of Women; The New Year; The Position and Prospects 
of Government; The Politician. In 2 vols. 12mo. 

" Here we have two beautiful volumes — we mean just as we 
write — two volumes into which Bulwer has infused just so much 
of himself — his immortality, as will cover about seven hundred 
pages. 

These volumes are the miscellaneous writings of that great 
author — great in his genius, great in his attainments, and but for 
an unhappy obliquity in certain of his works of fiction, great in 
all his writings. But in these essays, we have not those objec- 
tionable pictures Avhich we may censure in his novels. We may 
differ from the distinguished author in some of his opinions of 
men, and things, and morals, but as a whole, his miscellaneous 
writings must command the applause of the critic, while they 
rivet the attention of every class of readers. 

It is refreshing to sit down and, for an hour, hold converse 
with such a spirit as Bulwer's; to sit in the light of his genius, to 
feel its warmth, and to own a sympathy with his views. We for- 
get what we have to condemn in his novels, in the amount which 
we have to approve in his essays." — U. S. Gazette. 

LIVES OF EMINENT LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC MEN OF ITALY, 
By Mrs. Shelley, Sir David Brewster, James Montgomery, and 

others, conlaining: 
Dante, Gallileo, Petrarch, Tasso, Boccaccio, Vittoria Colonna, 

Lorenzo de Medici, <^c., Tassoni, Ariosto, Marini, Machiavelti, 

<^c. 

In Two Volumes. 

" These volumes contain biographical notices, more or less 
complete, of twenty-two of those names, many of which not only 
constitute the glory of Italy, but have stamped the impress of their 
genius upon all succeeding generations in every civilized country. 
The Lives commence with that of Dante, and end with Ugo Fos- 
colo, two persons who, in the character of their minds and tone 



of their feelings and sentiments, seem to us, though living so 
many centuries apart, to have borne a remarkable relation, to one 
another." — New York American. 

THE QUEEN OF FLOWERS, 

OB 

MEMOIRS OF THE ROSE; 

With Coloured Plates. 
A beautiful little volume, with gilt edges, suitable for presents. 

'' This neat little bijou comes very appropriately at the present 
season, just as the favorite and favored flower and all its perfumed 
satellites on every side are bursting into bloom and beauty. As 
an occasional souvenir or remembrance, too, it happens at the 
proper time — when the published annuals have become somewhat 
antiquated, and ere those in embryo have burst their chrysalis. 
The subject is treated in a series of pleasant letters from a gentle- 
man to a dear female friend, through which are scattered a profu- 
sion of gems of poesy from the rich mines of many ancient and 
modern sons of song. 

"Although the author, with attractive modesty, remarks in the 
language of the lively and forcible Montaigne, ' I have gathered 
a nosegay of flowers in which there is nothing of my own but the 
string that ties them,' yet the reader will discover many sweet 
thoughts and pretty sentiments, springing like daisies and violets 
by the wayside, charming the traveller, and rendering the pursuit 
pleasant and profitable." — Saturday Courier. 

THE SENTIMENT OF FLOWERS, 

OR 

LANGUAGE OF FLORA: 

EMBRACING AN ACCOUNT OF NEARLY THREE HUNDRED DIFFERENT FLOW- 
ERS, WITH THEIR POWERS IN LANGDAGE. 

"In Eastern lands they talk in flowers, 

And they tell in a garden their loves and cares; 
Each blossom that blooms in their garden bowers 
On its leaves a mystic language bears." 

With Coloured Plates; a small volume, embossed cloth, gilt edges. 
The work is beautifully got up, and the flowers tastefully and 
properly coloured. The volume is a pleasing appendage to the 
centre table, and is a most timely gift, when the flowers are just 
beginning to exhibit their beauties, and to present themselves as 
interpreters of human feelings. We commend the little volume 
as combining grave instruction with amusement. — U. S. Gazette. 

A New Edition, with New Plates, of the 

LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS, 

WITH ILLUSTRATIVE POETRY: 

To which is now first added. The Calendar op Flowers, revised 

by the Editor of '^Forget-Mc-Not;'' handsomely done up in 

embossed leather and gilt edges. 



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